Adventures in Fiction

Rant, Rebellion, and Realistic Characters

2011-12-29T07:13:00.000-06:00

Below is a work-related rant that turned toward writing and characterization, but I cut the post short back in May 2011, and never finished. This blog has lain fallow for about two months as my life has taken a few turns, and I'm only now returning to any normalcy in my writing routine; in the process of trying to come up with new material, I looked through old notes and found this.

For good or ill, the original rant is unchanged. However, I've expanded the characterization portion, and welcome your feedback.

I don't like to be controlled. Don't like to be micromanaged. Don't like someone being "all up in my business" or constantly asking questions about matters that are no business of theirs.

This is an increasingly intense battle at my day job, in which colleagues misbehave but put the burden on my shoulders. I am made responsible for their behavior, and for the morale of my fellow workers.

Funny. I thought morale started at the top. And, last time I looked, neither my paycheck nor my title reflected that kind of responsibility.

Everything comes back around to one issue: control. Who's gonna be the puppet master?

When someone says they trust me then they try to manage me, push me, pull the rug out from under me, they're saying, "I don't trust you." When someone says they appreciate all my years of service to the organization then they try to confine me rather than giving me room to do my job, they're saying, "I don't appreciate you."

Tasks that I did over a decade ago are no longer acceptable now. There's been an added position, one that's supposed to free the rest of us to do our jobs better, but the person in that role is so uncertain of his place that he's grasping control wherever he can, and in the process making life difficult for the rest of us. Commonsense has gone the way of freedom, autonomy, and trust: out the door.

Layers of bureaucracy do not produce efficiency. They do, however, produce mountains of paperwork, frustration, and demi-tyrants.

A couple weeks back, I was told by a supervisor, "I don't need any Lone Rangers." Really? It was concerning an area I had overseen since I was hired almost fourteen years ago. Suddenly, I'm a Lone Ranger.

Then, last week, I was reprimanded -- this person was shocked, shocked, I tell you -- because I didn't immediately do the first thing the boss asked, but offered an alternative that was better suited to the situation. After all, said this shocked individual, the good of the organization is superior to the good of the individual.

That's a scary notion. There's a whole lot of subtext to that statement (socialism and communism, for instance). Countless crimes and misdeeds have been carried out under the banner of the corporate good.

To my mind, the good of the individual is the good of the organization. After all, the organization cannot operate without the individual.

But what does any of this have to do with writing, other than serving as my personal rant?

Thus the soapbox is put aside, and here begins the actual writing-related portion about characters. Hope it helps!

Writers, how much control do you exert over your characters? Are they real, or are they robots?

If one is writing science fiction, robots might be expected, but even robotic characters tend to have personality i.e. C3PO or R2D2 in Star Wars, or android Mr. Data in "Star Trek: The Next Generation"; human characters, however, should not display robotic tendencies, unless the writer intends to use that stiffness or coldness to further the story somehow. (Or the "human" is a droid. That's almost always cool.)

With a change of circuitry or software, at the whim of the designer, robots can be altered, predicted, controlled.

Not so with humans. Push, prod, bully, or demand, we're stubborn, willful, changeable, foolish, scheming, proud, weak -- all sorts of traits and addictions not easily controlled by ourselves, let alone by others seeking to change us.

Why, then, do authors try to impose their wills on their characters? Granted, characters should not run amok in a story, or behave illogically (unless, of course, that plays to character or plot). However, ever read a story where the author obviously had a goal in mind for certain characters, and forced them to adhere to that plot, against the integrity of the characters?

By integrity, I mean the truth of the characters -- who they are, what they do, how they think and reason, what they believe, how they respond to authority figures, etc.

In the real world, questions don't necessarily mean disrespect for authority, though there is the assumption that questioning a command equals insubordination. Questions are a search for information, for reliability, for a reason. Authors should allow their characters to ask questions and establish realistic identities: "Why must I say that? I would never do this. I'd never hang out with that guy. Even if she's my relative, I wouldn't just excuse her behavior. If you, the author, want this from me, you must first give me a reason."

Just as valid a question in fiction as in the real world, have you earned the authority to make such demands of your characters? Are you a trustworthy storyteller? Do you keep your story's promises? Give your characters logical motivations? Allow plot twists to arise organically from the story rather than, say, including gunfire or an explosion -- or the cliched dead body -- just to jazz up boring or dead-end material?

Even if they can't always express it, readers can tell when they're reading the work of a competent and trustworthy storyteller, and when they're reading a story full of contrived circumstances and unrealistic characters.

My opinion: A tacked-on happy ending is less desirable than an organic, realistic tragic ending. (Although, to be honest, I much prefer happy endings to sad ones.) And give me a hero I can believe in, flawed or not, because he or she is written as if real. Warts, rebellion, and all.

Revisiting the Madness

2011-11-14T00:42:00.001-06:00

DS, age 12, at photography class c.2011, KB

Way back in August 2007, I posted the following entry -- which has become strangely relevant, and could have been written yesterday. Life is, once more, taking a new turn, and I am looking at my writing in a new way. Perhaps this post will encourage other writers to take leaps into the unknown.

I am trying to come to grips with the possibility that my life may soon change drastically; I'll know more in about three days. Therefore, below is my most recent post from my other blog. May it encourage you to embrace the madness.

A Few Mad Friends

"I am but mad north-northwest; when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw"--so said the Danish prince when his stepfather sent "friends" to cajole him out of his dark humor.

I like Hamlet. I like him more and more all the time. Though dysfunctional, my family has never driven me to feign madness--but it has made me wish I could go to my own little place and curl up in a solitary corner.

However, it's not bizarre family that brings me here today. It's friends. Fellow victims of the writing madness that causes us to bleed our souls onto pages that (perhaps) no one will ever see. But we don't do it for anyone else; we do it for ourselves. We do it to keep from running mad.

I keep an inconsistent journal. I think I'm on book number 16 or 17 by now. Some of them span a single year, and some only a few months. I don't journal every day. There's no need. But when the fiction won't fly, and when the poetry is dammed upstream, or when my head is confused with too many options--or not enough--or filled with the remnants of bad dreams, I open the journal and push open the floodgates.

Recently, a different but more enjoyable outlet for the madness was some time spent in the company of a friend who, though he disagrees with me on politics and religion (supposedly two friendship killers, if ever there were), is of a similar mind in many other ways. He's also a very good storyteller. Two nights this past week, we talked for a combined total of about 8 hours, maybe more. Though life and decisions were tossed into the mix, the main topic was writing: rejections, acceptances, unfinished novels, novels ready for publication--if only they could land on the right desk at the right time.

I was encouraged, pushed, amused, made to think. Life hasn't been peachy this past week, and Monday may bring news I don't want to hear, because it may mean the shortening--at the very least, the restructuring--of my life. But I've had two days with a good friend, one to whom I need explain nothing, because he's just as mad as I.

We all need a few mad friends.

"Chess" Revisited

2011-10-27T02:03:00.000-05:00

Over two and a half years ago, I wrote a small post featuring a well-known piece, "Chess", by late Mexican poet Rosario Castellanos. For reasons I do not know, that post has received the most traffic on this blog -- a crazy amount -- and has inspired dialogue online and off:

Chess

Because we were friends and sometimes loved each other,
perhaps to add one more tie
to the many that already bound us,
we decided to play games of the mind.

We set up a board between us:
equally divided into pieces, values,
and possible moves.
We learned the rules, we swore to respect them,
and the match began.

We've been sitting here for centuries, meditating
ferociously
how to deal the one last blow that will finally
annihilate the other one forever.

Rosario Castellanos
(25 May 1925 – 7 August 1974)
Mexican poet and author

A recent visitor named Joel asked, "(Y)ou mention that this poem is a representative of both humanity and history. Care to explain your point of view?"

My reply:

(T)hat's a condensed way of saying this, I suppose: the cliched wish for world peace is naive, unrealistic, and never gonna happen, because it doesn't take into account human nature. There will always be conflict. There will always be war, even if it's just between individuals.

Writers and readers, television and movie viewers, all know that stories where everyone gets along, no one makes mistakes or misjudgments, and nothing goes wrong are boring and amateurish. For me, the most interesting conflicts are between respected rivals, or related rivals, because one never knows what they will do: will they help their antagonist, or thwart him?

"Peace" is like "love"--one of those words we say, and we think everyone knows exactly what we mean, and yet everyone has his or her own definition for it.

So, we talk, but we don't really communicate. We educate ourselves, but we don't necessarily learn.

Even the most allegedly open-minded of us has prejudices and makes assumptions. Exhibit A: those who preach tolerance while trying to control or silence those who disagree i.e. homosexual activists, who attempt to shut down opposing viewpoints by throwing around such terms as "hate" and "homophobia".

And what about the call for consensus among scientists regarding global warming? Since when has science been about agreeing with one another? It's about exploration, searching for answers, testing theories, asking questions.

And intriguing nonfiction read that is full of opposing viewpoints, different interpretations of evidence, and friendly and not-so-friendly debates is a magazine I read cover-to-cover, Biblical Archeology Review. Part of what makes it so interesting are the differences, not necessarily the moments of consensus.

History repeats in cycles of violence and calm, repression and freedom, tyranny and democracy, because humanity is always fighting with itself: Who's in charge? Who makes the rules? Who gets the most land? Who has the most power? Who wins, who loses, who flinches first? This occurs among allied nations as well as between rivals.

As an American, I'm tired of my country being vilified -- America's not doing enough, America's interfering; America spends too much, America isn't spending enough -- but everyone wants to take down the biggest guy on the block and become king of the neighborhood. Again, that's just human nature.

On a smaller scale, we tend to fight the most with those who are closest to us. Why? Only what matters to us can make us angry; it it doesn't matter, we don't waste the energy.

Therefore, we push-pull with those who matter to us. My father and I probably could have had a perfectly reasonable, calm relationship if we didn't love each other so much or disagree with each other so vehemently.

Enough said.

2011-10-07T12:11:00.004-05:00

Episode 16 ("Game Change") of Thieves' Honor is up at Ray Gun Revival, and it's a short, quite condensed chapter of the ongoing story of Captain Kristoff, the crew of the Martina Vega, and their various enemies and almost-friends. After reading it, leave a comment at the end, if you'd like.

This serial continues to be a literary experiment, which means it's sometimes a bumpy ride for author and readers alike, but the roughest roads can lead to the most memorable adventures.

In my childhood, my father was the master of the long cut. Many a shortcut he took ended up being the wrong way, the long way around, or a dead end. But he also took us on Sunday drives, after-supper evening drives, weekend drives. A family without a television, we read a lot of books, listened to radio programs, and spent a lot of time outdoors. Those drives were a form of exploring, of being away.

Sometimes they were quiet, uneventful. Sometimes a little too exciting, such as the time Dad swore a rutted and bumpy dirt road was safe, and almost immediately afterward came a scraping thunk as the car became high-centered on a rock sticking up between the ruts. We all had to pile out while Mom freaked and Dad worked to extricate the vehicle without puncturing any of its vital parts.

To add to the, ahem, excitement, the incident happened at dusk, and we were losing light fast.

See? Rough roads = memories. ;)

My hope is that the memories from this literary road are useful -- never drive a low-slung car on a deeply-rutted road, for instance, and never leave a character lingering in a forgotten plot hole -- as well as amusing.

Yard Sale Stories

2011-09-18T10:38:00.003-05:00

This weekend was the city-wide yard sale in my town. (It's more of a town than a city, but we have a population sign, a council, and a mayor, so we're technically a city.) Saturday, with all the parked cars and wandering pedestrians, my street looked like a redneck mall. There was everything from giant shop fans to delicate antiques on sale in yards, garages, and driveways, and I was one of the vendors, my carport packed with stuff I didn't want to ever bring back inside the house.

It's amazing what clutter one accumulates in a few short years. When I first moved into the house, after Dad and I and a few others did major renovations to what had been a rotting structure, the place echoed, it was so empty. But then folks started giving me kitchenware, dust-catchers (the givers called them decorations), and furniture -- often items they didn't want but didn't want to throw away, and mostly justified by the notion that "a single person must need this."

But I'll be honest: I've acquired a whole lot of stuff all on my own.

So, for the past week or more, I sorted and debated, eventually filling the dining room with piled boxes and furniture destined for the yard sale. I felt good about my decisions.

Then, Friday, there was rain. And more rain predicted for the weekend.

Knowing the fickleness of weather, I prepared for the sale anyway. With the carport as shelter, I could still have a sale -- and probably be the only intrepid soul to do so on my street -- so I hauled out the heaviest items, and parked the car so the driveway was blocked against possible pre-sale scouting. (Ahem, thieving.) By the time I finished the signs (I'd forgotten about them earlier in the week), prepared the starting money (forgot about that, too), and finished an inventory and price tags, the time was 3 a.m.

When the alarm blared at 5 a.m., I was so groggy I felt ill, so I reset it for 6. As a result, I was still finishing the set up when the first customer arrived around 7 a.m. He helped carry out the last piece of furniture -- an antique dresser that customers commented on, admired, stroked, tapped, examined, wanted for dirt cheap, but never purchased. It was the last piece put out in the sale, and the last piece returned to the house.

Aside from a few sprinkles mid-morning, the weather was perfect.

Not being a very social person, the sale forced me to be outgoing -- to chat. That's an uncomfortable exercise with strangers, but in an Arkansas town, just about everybody knows everybody, even if they met two seconds ago. People asked who my daddy was -- "Oh, yeah, I know him! Nice fella" -- and why there was a For Sale sign in the yard, where I worked, how much I'd be willing to take for a duffle bag, what was the story behind the little wooden table.

A tattooed, pierced, skater-goth-hip hop young man in a sideways ballcap and saggy black denim shorts -- he lives a few houses down -- stopped on the edge of the grass and yelled a question at me that I couldn't quite hear over the other conversations.

"Pardon?"

"Got any old science fiction books for sale?"

"All those are still in the house, on the shelf."

"In that case, I like you. You're cool. Never sell those books."

And he walked up the street.

In another incident, a nice lady bought a couple of old, glass-paneled exterior doors that Dad and I had modified to use as bedroom doors. However, they're a little too unconventional for most home buyers, so they had to go. The customer fell in love with them as soon as she set eyes on them. Her truck, however, was piled with a large cooler, a tall Christmas tree, a folding lounge chair, and several other items. When she tried to back into the driveway, she ran into another customer's truck.

She didn't hear our shouted warnings or see our waving arms. Her tow hitch slid right under theirs, and the bumpers kissed, but no harm was done. The other customers laughed, and ran to help, and the trucks were parted without a hitch. (chuckle) The lady, however, was distraught.

As a way to calm her, I talked about the old doors, and why I am nervous around too-perfect things. "I'm afraid to touch them or use them, and I just can't be comfortable--"

"I'm the same way!" And she ran with the conversation while I loaded the doors into her truck, in the end assuring me that they would have a good home inside a house filled with other old and imperfect things that she loves.

During the course of the sale, I met a grandmother who was raising her grandchildren, and needed a bed so they didn't have to sleep with her anymore. I had just the bed she needed. There was also a Korean War veteran who found just the right flat-billed ballcap in the box of free stuff; a young family of four who bought the dinnerware -- I tossed in the box of drinking glasses for free; a boy who wanted a stuffed bear but didn't have the money for it -- I told him to take care of it well; a woman on her way to work who saw some bowls she needed, so she had to stop before someone else snatched them; a mother and daughter shopping for items for a newlywed couple on a limited budget, and my solid-wood file cabinet was the right price.

Despite lack of sleep, lack of food, and lack of the finer conversational skills, I had a good time. When I finally shut down in the middle of the afternoon, there were only two bins of items, the television, and the antique dresser to return to the house. The place feels almost empty again, and some spaces echo.

Breathing room.

Wah-wah-wah-Wanda

2011-08-22T21:03:00.002-05:00

Heeeeeerrrrrre's Wanda! She's my new car, a little Kia Soul that's more fun to drive than I expected, but I still miss my old red truck.

The car's called Wanda thanks to my mother, who imitated the sound it made when I had to slow down suddenly, and the engine sounded like a toy whose rubberband was unwinding.

Mom also found it quite amusing to remind me that now I have "a tiny black Soul" -- no commentary, please, on my spiritual condition. ;)

However, the Soul does look quite dark, due to its portrait being taken at twilight, just before the family took a walk around my brother and sister-in-law's neighborhood.

I was playing with the settings on my camera, seeing which ones yielded the best shots in the low light, and this picture is an early endeavor, before I got the settings right.

Residential Aliens Blog Tour

2011-08-22T10:29:00.000-05:00

I've been out of the loop in the last few months of the Christian Science Fiction & Fantasy Blog Tour, but I'm gonna promote the August tour for speculative fiction magazine Residential Aliens even if I'm not participating.

And the reason I'm not joining the tour is because I'm a slush reader for that magazine and for its sister publication, horror mag Fear and Trembling, and therefore biased in my views. However, below is a list of participating bloggers whose views might be a bit more balanced:

Noah Arsenault
Brandon Barr
Thomas Clayton Booher
Grace Bridges
Beckie Burnham
Jeff Chapman
CSFF Blog Tour
Carol Bruce Collett
D. G. D. Davidson
Dean Hardy
Katie Hart
Ryan Heart
Bruce Hennigan
Jason Joyner
Carol Keen
Shannon McDermott
Rebecca LuElla Miller
Lyn Perry
Sarah Sawyer
Jessica Thomas
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Phyllis Wheeler

And, just for kicks, here are a couple blogs written by Lyn Perry, editor of RA and F&T:
Residential Aliens
Bloggin' Out Loud

Enjoy!

Endings, Again

2011-08-20T11:36:00.002-05:00

Near the beginning of the month, I wrote a post about endings -- in real life and in literature -- and included the closing paragraphs of a novel, Dragon's Rook. One of my concerns is the apparent depressing nature of the ending, because a few characters die in a short amount of time, at the end of Part 3 and Part 4, which may concern the readers about what the next book will be like.

My niece recently read the first novel in its entirety; and, like previous readers, she (who picks up on all sorts of nuances) missed what I thought was a glaringly obvious statement in this paragraph describing a king's daughter-turned-warrior and a horse bearing the body of an enemy soldier with whom the king's daughter is now allied:

Captain Gaerbith’s horse pricked his ears and danced sideways, eagerness in every line. Yanámari rose to her feet, hope surging. The horse behaved as if his master lived.

Leaping astride her mount, she grabbed Kraekor’s reins and turned toward the gates.

This is at the end of Part 3 in the manuscript. To me, the "clue" is obvious, but most readers haven't caught it. Perhaps that's because they're focused on the rest of the action. Therefore, "hope surging" and "(t)he horse behaved as if his master lived" are too quiet when compared to the noise of battle.

Talking to Niece #1 about her thoughts on that scene -- by the way, she wanted to immediately read the next book, which is still unfinished -- she said, "Well, he expected to die there, because it fits with the prophecy he was given." True, true. And there will be no fiddling with the prophecy or the circumstances, no telling the reader, "Psych! It was all just a big misunderstanding!" because that would weaken the story, the same way the "it was all just a dream" trick never really works.

Except for individual scenes, such as a character having a vivid dream that seems real, because the jolt factor can keep a story interesting and take it into new territory -- but using a dream as the whole setting for the story? That's a surefire way for me to throw the book across the room and never read anything by that author again.

And it's one reason I'm back-and-forth about whether or not I'll buy the DVDs of the American version of the TV series "Life on Mars" that aired a while back. The show was cancelled, and -- as I understand it -- the writers had to scramble to write a suitable ending for the story. What they created was a version of the "it was all a dream" scenario. It's clever, I'll admit, and it works to tie up loose ends and even makes me chuckle, but it still feels weak somehow, an easy out for all the build-up and suspense.

"Lost" is another show that was a huge let-down for me, with its variation on the dream trick: "we've been dead all along, and now it's time to go toward the light" -- a weak, empty ending that never answered the questions or took responsibility for all the story that had happened up until that point.

So, back to Captain Gaerbith being dead or alive: both are true in that instant, and the prophecy has been fulfilled. Then again, I do have a scene written where it is fulfilled again, but that is for much later in the story.

No great spoiler here: Gaerbith survives Book One, and is a vital part of the next book and what happens with the other male lead, because the two storylines eventually meet and the men join forces to find something ancient that was lost. There will be battles and journeys, and romance, too, because even battle-hardened warriors need love, and there are strong, brave women to stand at their sides. Not all the beloved characters will remain, and there will be sorrow, but hope will very much be present when "The End" is typed at the bottom of the final page. Any grief can be endured, if there is hope.

Tropes and Me

2011-08-10T13:09:00.002-05:00

Gotta love the internet (or Internet, for those who like their capitalization to be proper). This morning, I did a quick, interesting research session on reforging broken swords, and found just the bit of information necessary for one of my characters to sound like he knew what he was doing.

In the midst of that search, I encountered many references to World of Warcraft and The Lord of the Rings (the shards of Narsil, after all, were reforged by the Elves into Anduril), and was struck by the notion that the use of a broken blade in a fantasy tale might not be a good idea. It's overdone. However, the two broken swords in my novels are not magical or powerful in any way; they are just ordinary weapons damaged in battle. The first almost kills one of the heroes; the second belongs to a man killed while fighting a dragon.

Yet, as I contemplated the possibility of change, I came to the conclusion that -- just because my story has a fantasy trope or three -- I don't have to fall into any ruts or cliches.

A trope is defined by Merriam-Webster as "a word or expression used in a figurative sense" and "a common or overused theme or device" i.e. gunfights in Westerns, love triangles in soap operas, alien invasions in science fiction.

Tropes are tropes for a reason: they generally work. Yeah, we rail against them as being predictable, cliche, too easy, but they are markers, telling us what kind of story we have encountered, what we might expect if we proceed further. On the other hand, if an author knows the tropes of his genre, he can twist the story, surprise the audience, turn the cliche upside down or inside out.

I guess that's one reason I enjoyed the recent SyFy miniseries, Tin Man and Alice: the familiar, beloved The Wizard of Oz (book, movie) and Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass (AiW book, LtLG book, and various movie interpretations) retold in unexpected ways. Although the original stories were present, they did not unfold the way the audience already knew.

There's something to be said for the familiar and predictable: it can be comforting. Young children, for instance, want the story to be told, word for word, the same way every time. They might chastise or correct the adult who tries to skip ahead or change up a tale he or she finds boring.

On the other hand, we grownups have pretty much heard and seen and read it all. We tend to be on the search for something fresh, something that will keep us guessing. Still, we also have certain expectations about what makes up a particular genre -- there's generally a crime committed in a mystery novel, or something futuristic in a science fiction yarn -- and therefore, whether we like 'em or not, there are tropes.

So, alongside dragons and big battles, the broken swords will remain in my novels. They're fantasy, after all. Can't leave the audience always guessing.

Endings

2011-08-02T10:43:00.002-05:00

"Don’t be daft, lad!...Ye want to leave the village? Then ye end something. Ye want a new life? Kill the old." (Father Donovan, a character in Dragon's Rook by KB)

I've been contemplating endings.

This isn't a recent activity; I've been contemplating endings for a good long while. Over the past few years, I've wanted to end my job, certain relationships, even my writing. There was a time in my youth when I wanted to end my life.

Now I'm facing endings that haven't quite arrived, but whose lanterns are gleaming far down the tracks.

This is the first week of a two-week vacation, but I'm still working, not in the office but around the house, preparing for the realtor's visit on Friday. A "For Sale" sign will be planted in the yard. I will say goodbye to the house my father and I rebuilt together. It has been my haven, my hermit cave, even -- a source of quiet and refuge -- a place I can take a certain pride in, because my sweat and bruised thumbs and broken toes helped turn a rotting old house into a snug, comfortable home.

Family has gathered here. Friends have talked here. Neighbors have stood in the front yard and traded news.

Where will I live when the house sells? I don't know.
Where will family stay when they come to town? I don't know.
Where will I go to rest and write? I don't know.

I've always been a little restless. It comes, I think, not just from my personality but from my father, who moved the family around the country often when I was young. It was a mixed blessing: we met different kinds of people, saw some awesome countryside, but never truly felt at home. Even now, fourteen years after I bought this house, the place I have felt the most "at home", there are cardboard boxes that have never been unpacked, waiting for the next move.

But what does this life moment have to do with writing?

I've been contemplating endings.

My science fiction serial has lost its way -- my fault -- and I'm looking at how to bring it back on track and end it well. A serial is not my usual way of writing, and I'm not quite proud of how it's working out, but it's forcing me to not linger too long, to not polish every word until the story never gets out to the reading world. Many of my missteps might be forgiven if the end is strong. It's already written; the challenge is getting there.

A number of short stories are completed and polished, but unpublished, not due to rejection but due to my own lack of action. A great many more remain unfinished or even unwritten, just existing as notes and scene ideas. In essence, ending before they've begun.

Manuscripts await completion. They pull at me, and I want to follow, because I want to see how the stories end. I want to know who wins, who loses. Does Brygid leave her sword, and does Yasha take it up? Will Gaerbith remain immortal? How does Kieran become king? Will Maggie's hand be restored, or does it remain twisted, her weakness and her strength? Will the endings be worthy of all the pages that came before?

In a recent blog post by Rebecca LuElla Miller at Rewrite, Reword, Rework, she discusses endings:

Endings are in the position to leave the greatest impression. Consequently they should be the strongest part of each story element...Whether tightly wrapped up or somewhat open-ended, stories need to bring their character arcs and plot events to powerful conclusions. Those are the books that stay on shelves and get re-read from time to time. Those are the books that make readers want to buy that author’s next novel.

Just about every writer I know wants their work to be read and re-read. It's like applause for a job well done, even if we never know, never hear that applause.

Becky's post opens with this:

When I finished the last page, I wanted to toss the book as far as I could, as hard as I could. The protagonist who I had followed for the last four hundred pages died without accomplishing his goal. No momentous lesson learned along the way, no great change to complete his character arc. Why, I wondered, had I wasted my days and hours reading about this failed adventure that led nowhere?

That got me to thinking of the first manuscript in my fantasy cycle. It ends in a dark place -- people have died, characters have left their homes, a mission appears to have failed. Despite the "to be continued" notation on the last page, I've often wondered if the hope is overwhelmed by the darkness, to the point that readers will give up on the story. Will they look forward eagerly to what happens next, or will they give up and throw the book across the room?

Honestly, that's the reaction I'm expecting from the publisher currently in possession of that manuscript: "It's too depressing! We can't print this crap."

Here is the end. Or, at least, an ending.

But if you venture beyond it and continue reading, I'd like to know your thoughts on the manuscript excerpt below. Too depressing for the first in a series?

------------------ end of Dragon's Rook by Keanan Brand ------------------

Villagers filed out of the churchyard in silent procession, the women’s heads covered in white kerchiefs. The pallor caught and reflected the last rays of sunlight, pointing the souls toward the Otherland.

Tradition dictated preparing a grief feast and telling stories about the ones just buried, but a sudden awareness had settled over the villagers, as thick as the foul black smoke still rising from the pyre. They would pay dearly for this day.

Meantime, lingering mercenaries boasted their prowess over ale at the Blue Oak. Father Donovan could hear their merriment even in the kirkyard.

Only Mother Crumb and Thryffin remained. The healer seemed suddenly withered, a bit of old root severed from its tree and left to dry above the ground. Her movements were stiff, lacking their accustomed grace, and the lines in her face were chasms to channel her tears.

"How fares Farmer Connor?" asked Father Donovan.

"I fear you will be standing over his grave on the morrow."

"What of Maggie?"

Mother Crumb wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. "I cannot hear her."

He understood. Her Gift did not sense Maggie’s. For healers connected by their very essence, such a loss was nigh death.

"And Kieran?" As he spoke the smith’s name, Father Donovan saw Thryffin take a step then stand very still. "Does the Gift yet hear him?"

"He is gone north, I think. Perhaps west to the Ruins."

"Did he bid ye farewell?"

Mother Crumb’s glance flicked toward Thryffin, who still listened yet tried to appear as if he did not. "Kieran said nothing to anyone." She reached a hand to the boy, but he stayed where he was. "He did it to keep you safe, lad. He did it for all of us."

Thryffin turned and left the kirkyard. The priest gazed after him, wishing he had wisdom for such times.

Mother Crumb sighed. "Better for him to be with Kieran, safe or no, for now the lad cradles a great hurt. It will fester like a rotten wound."

Aye. Father Donovan knew the bitterness of cherished wrongs held tight for too long. After a silence, he said, "So it begins."

"So it begins."

The healer departed, limping as if her feet could scarce touch the ground without pain. Father Donovan quelled the sudden thought that he might soon be saying the death blessing over her.

He stood beside the new graves, his heart heavy. This day had welcomed the evil from which he so longed to protect the people, yet he could neither prevent nor alter what had been foretold.

Risá El ethem, Mymna Tor

Risá duru Nar Cahm enkára lenë llumim

Risá nen, o pyrvië grimladh

In Kelden, the resonating power of the words was lost in the beauty of sound and rhythm. Father Donovan repeated the ancient prayer, this time with the force of common Skardian:

Rescue Your people, Mymna Tor

Rescue from the Dark Enemy seeking our lives

Rescue us, and vanquish evil

Soon Mymna Tor and Nar Cahm would shout at one another, and all the world would hear.

to be continued…

2011-07-30T19:41:00.001-05:00

The newest episode of Thieves' Honor is up at Ray Gun Revival: Episode 15: Head Games, Part 2. Head on over and check it out, rate the episode. I'd like some honest feedback, if you're inclined to leave a comment.

My mother is one of my readers, and she's been pestering me to "move the story along" and "pick up the pace" and "start revealing the secrets".

Yes, ma'am.

So, this mostly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants writer is endeavoring to do just that. I'm at work on Episode 16, which will conclude the "Head Games" arc and put the crew of the Martina Vega onto another branch of the story, one that is (I hope) surprising to readers and yet completely logical.

One thing I tend to do as a writer is people my stories with too many characters. That's one complaint from a couple readers. On the other hand, I find it boring -- as a writer and as a reader -- to too few characters. Even the most hermit-y among us has to live among other people; why not characters in fiction?

Of course, the challenge is this: how do I keep track of all those characters and still keep the readers' interest?

Another challenge is knowing when to reveal secrets. Or, as "The Gambler" advised, "You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away and know when to run." This is a struggle for me, since I generally keep my cards close to the chest. That only works so long in fiction. Then the reader needs to be rewarded for his efforts, and get a chance to see what all the fuss is about.

It's also about time to throw some more science -- real or imaginary -- into the story, and I'm hoping to include a decent action scene near the end of Ep 16. Gotta give everyone a chance to show their skills.

And I think it's about time to reveal the true identity of the watcher, the spy aboard the Vega. Whaddya say?

How to Write Your Best Story: a rambling review

2011-07-26T21:28:00.002-05:00

A few months ago, Philip Martin, a fellow writer and editor (although he's more established and "serious" than I am in the editing realm, and he has fingers in all sorts of literary pies), asked me to read through the manuscript for How to Write Your Best Story: Advice for Writers on Spinning an Enchanting Tale (128 pages, $14.95, Crickhollow Books).

I've been writing since I was nine or ten years old -- not very well, but often and copiously -- and I've lost count of the writing conferences, seminars, and classes, and groups I've attended, but the greatest learning has come from the simple act of writing (and revising -- a lot), and the best advice has come from sitting down and talking to other and better writers. Reading How to Write Your Best Story is rather like one of those conversations: down-to-earth, intelligent, understandable, and useful.

Aside: Did I mention that my first conversation with Philip Martin was several years ago at a writers conference? Yep. I attended his session (I forget the topic), then asked him to autograph my well-read copy of his recent book, The Writer's Guide to Fantasy Literature: From Dragon's Lair to Hero's Quest, a Brothers Hildebrandt painting of Smaug on the cover, which just makes a good book that much cooler. I'm not usually the groupie / fanboy type, and I certainly don't go around asking other folks for their autographs, but this time, it just seemed like the thing to do.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

"Never judge a book by its cover" is old advice that isn't always true. After all, most of us have seen plenty of cheesy science fiction covers with awkward robots or scantily-clad alien women, or trashy romance novels decorated in shirtless men with impossible hair or women in torn bodices. We look at those covers, and we pretty much know what we're gonna get. (I'll take the science fiction -- hold the cheese -- over the lurid romance any day.) The whimsical cover art for How to Write Your Best Story is the reader's first clue that the contents are written by someone who knows and appreciates a good story, and probably read his share of them. (The artwork is by the late Marvin Hill.) What I like best about this book of advice is that it's less about rules and more about principles of good storytelling:

Good storytelling exists in a world outside of formal structural elements of literature. It has intangible aspects, like a beautiful melody or an appealing fragrance. It exists in imaginary worlds you know well, like the 100 Acre Woods, or Narnia, or Lake Woebegone, or in mostly real worlds, such as a humorous journey on the Appalachian Trail with Bill Bryson -- or in any number of great books based as much on storytelling as anything else. (p9)

And

(F)or a good number of years, I've pondered the question: is there a way to teach good storytelling, in the fashion of Kipling, Steinbeck, C.S. Lewis, O. Henry, Tolkien, or other beloved writers classic and modern -- successful authors who we'd all agree knew a good story from a hole in the ground?

What do readers look for in a good tale? What specific techniques do I find myself most often recommending to emerging writers to boost the quality of their stories? (p10)

That's what Martin endeavors to do in the rest of the book, and he does it with a whimsy to match the cover art, by telling a story interwoven with instructive chapters. After the Introduction, for instance, is the beginning of "The Princess & the Apple", followed by Part One: General Things about Good Stories, followed by the further tale of "The Princess & the Apple", which is interspersed among these chapters: The Case for Intriguing Eccentricity, The Case for Delightful Details, and The Case for Satisfying Surprises.

Included are many quotes from the works of famous authors and poets, including this quote from Joyce Carol Oates:

"Storytelling is shaped by two contrary, yet complementary, impulses -- one toward brevity, compactness, artful omission; the other toward expansion, amplification, enrichment." (p25)

That's a push-pull war in which I constantly engage: what to leave out, what to add, what must be spelled out, what can be implied, what's trivial, what matters.

A few more examples of advice from the book:

throw out the thesaurus (pp26-30),
juxtapose or fuse two ideas to offer a unique intersection (pp50-51),
listen (pp55-56),
use more senses (pp68-70),
ask what your characters want most (p93),
don't dodge the difficult ending (pp104-105),

and much more.

How to Write Your Best Story is chock-full of good, perennial advice, but it's also fun to read. This book will remain in my permanent library, and that's just about the best recommendation I can give.

2011-07-13T14:16:00.002-05:00

Bubba and Bubba's Wife have brought the family for a visit, and the three nieces are quite vocal. They could be the voices behind an album entitled "The Three Sopranos: The Jazz Project", in which Niece #1 provides percussion with her angst-ridden stomping up and down the hallway; Niece #2 offers the toddler equivalent of improvisational riffs in the form of random, sometimes-unintelligible commentary; and infant Niece #3 has the pipes for belting out amazing (and endless) solos.

I'm operating on Day 3 of about four hours of sleep per night, but part of the fault lies with my own irresponsibility: staying up too late to spend time with B and BW after the kids are asleep. We adults are a bit groggy and snappish -- and there's still a week and a half left.

Saturday, nobody better wake me up before noon!

Still, a week and a half is not enough time. We recently learned that Bubba is headed to Afghanistan for a year, news that sets everyone on edge, inspires additional prayers, changes the way we look at the future. Despite the dangers, though, there is opportunity for learning, experience, even adventure. How many times do we miss opportunity because it looks scary? Maybe risk is just what we need.

So we prepare ourselves to let him leave. We pray for his safety and for our peace; for those with whom he will serve, and for those too young to understand why Daddy doesn't come home every night. Bubba and I have been those kids whose father was gone for long stretches of time, but we can't transfer our knowledge to little minds. After all, the best-learned lessons are often the ones we experience for ourselves, and there are journeys we make alone. Even if someone walks beside us, our own feet must carry us.

May they carry us forward to strength, to peace, to joyful reunions.

America the Beautiful

2011-07-04T17:49:00.000-05:00

It's late on the Fourth of July, and I've been trying to come up with something fitting, patriotic and poetic, to mark the day, but nothing comes to mind but a song.

Despite my current skeptical and less-than-enthusiastic view of the state of this nation, I'm still a citizen, and I still love my country. That's politically incorrect these days, when flying the flag, saying the pledge, wearing a flag pin, being an unabashed capitalist, believing the Constitution is still relevant, saying "under God" are activities looked down upon by many in leadership. But the first writing contest I won as a kid had the theme "What's Right with America" -- how can I give up now?

So, without further commentary, below are the lyrics to America the Beautiful, with some lines highlighted in red, simply because they hit me in the chest every time I hear or read them:

America the Beautiful
Words by Katharine Lee Bates,
Melody by Samuel Ward

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose stern impassioned stress
A thoroughfare of freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America!
God mend thine every flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law!

O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife.
Who more than self their country loved
And mercy more than life!
America! America!
May God thy gold refine
Till all success be nobleness
And every gain divine!

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for halcyon skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the enameled plain!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
Till souls wax fair as earth and air
And music-hearted sea!

O beautiful for pilgrims feet,
Whose stem impassioned stress
A thoroughfare for freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
Till paths be wrought through
wilds of thought
By pilgrim foot and knee!

O beautiful for glory-tale
Of liberating strife
When once and twice,
for man's avail
Men lavished precious life!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
Till selfish gain no longer stain
The banner of the free!

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
Till nobler men keep once again
Thy whiter jubilee!

lyrics provided by ScoutSongs.com virtual songbook

2011-07-01T00:48:00.000-05:00

Ah, there's nothin' like the non-smell of fresh-cut sun-burnt grass in the morning. June has been one of the hottest on record in my area of Arkansas, and July's shaping up to be even hotter. Guess that means less mowing. I won't complain.

After incorporating feedback from some pre-readers, I've just finished a rewrite of Episode 15 of Thieves' Honor, the science fiction serial for Ray Gun Revival (check out their short stories -- good stuff!), and have been tinkering with the modern supernatural thriller (not as thrilling as I would like -- not yet!).

Back in May, I shared the notes on a funny bit of dialogue I was hoping to incorporate into this episode of TH; however, that scene will have to wait, due to a turn in the story. Still, I hope readers get a chuckle or two. I laughed out loud while writing the episode, but maybe that's because the material was funnier in my head than it is on paper. After all, I wake myself laughing, even when I can't recall what's so funny about the dream.

This episode has juvenile body-function humor (very mild stuff here):

"We got maybe five minutes."

Alerio could have been talking about the weather: "Then we either crack the code or run like the wind."

"If Corrigan was here, it'd be a foul wind."

"All the more reason to run."

And it has a reference to Kung Fu, a television series my brother, cousins, and I watched "back in the day". I leave that allusion for the readers to find.

As for the supernatural thriller that's not so thrilling, I realized that it needs a sharper focus. There's a lot of cool stuff that I've described, or that the characters possess, use, or fear, but there hasn't been one of those awesome, epic action scenes that showcase the characters' skills. So far, the tension has been contained, quiet, the kind that powers a psychological thriller. What I need is something big and scary, something that shows the power of both good and evil, and then I need to pull back from the fireworks, maintaining the tension by never letting the reader forget that just because it's quiet now doesn't mean there won't be something happening any second.

Kinda like the psychology behind a "haunted house" attraction in October: the brain knows the creatures and spooks are just regular people in disguise, but the fear comes from the dark, from the unexpected, from the possibility of danger.

Speaking of scary, the clock is warning me of the time -- I have to get ready for work in five hours -- but I'm just too tired to muster a girly scream of fright. Maybe that means I'll sleep like the dead.

Dad: a late Father's Day post

2011-06-25T11:36:00.002-05:00

I love my dad. He's my dad. When I was little, he was my hero.

In later years, though, if Mom really wanted to annoy me, she would say, "You're just like your father." It was not intended as a compliment.

Dad, like all of us, is a frail human being. Despite not knowing how to swim, he joined the Navy to avoid being drafted and sent somewhere he might not want to go during the Viet Nam War. (Yes, war. There were bullets flying and people dying. "Conflict" is just semantics.) He made friends easily, could tell funny stories that were most often true, and women liked him. He liked them, too -- rather too well.

Although he is much older now, somewhat wiser, a better worker, his personality is essentially that of the young sailor who married a college co-ed in the autumn of 1970 and brought her back to California where he was stationed, and sometimes sneaked off base -- AWOL -- to go visit her in the apartment when he was supposed to be on watch.

A woman knows the face of the man she loves as a sailor knows the open sea.
Honore de Balzac

An uninformed observer looking through the family photo albums can see the love through who and what this young couple chose to photograph: her in the park, him sleeping with the baby (me), her in an apron and smiling into the lens, him hiding from the camera by ducking behind a newspaper. Skip a few pages, skip a few years, and there's my fat little brother (who grew up to be bean-pole skinny) offering the photographer a jolly grin. There's me in a wide-legged stance inside Dad's giant work boots.

If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.
A.A. Milne

But not every couple is allowed to grow old together. Some separate by choice, some by death, some by force or circumstance. Infidelity is the simple reason my parents separated, but there was much more festering in that wound than just my father's desperate search for something he could not quite name but thought he knew.

I learned about Dad's latest marriage when I called him to ask what he wanted to do for his birthday. For months, I wasn't sure if he was married or not, just that he was pretty much living with someone. However, I've tried to be incurious, not asking too many questions, not asking the wrong kinds of questions, waiting for Dad to talk about the situation.

Strange, that. When I was young, we sat together at the dinner table as a family, and there was conversation. Only as we slowly, slowly broke apart did the conversation cease.

And only as we slowly, slowly are coming back together has the conversation returned.

The attempt to redefine the family as a purely voluntary arrangement grows out of the modern delusion that people can keep all their options open all the time.
Christopher Lasch

As Dad learned, one cannot repeatedly go looking for "love" far afield and expect those who love to remain unshaken, arms wide open, ready to forgive and be hurt again. Although that's how I picture Christ -- always ready to lift us up when we fall -- I am merely human, and forgiveness is not my first instinct.

There's still a certain stiffness in the dialogue sometimes, but now we can laugh together. Now we can share a family memory and not immediately clear our throats, grow quiet, change the subject.

The joke in our family is that we can cry reading the phone book.
Ron Reagan

Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops.
Cary Grant

There are still inside jokes that make us laugh -- or, at the very least, smile.

A few weeks ago, Dad borrowed a book from me to share with his wife: A Six-Cylinder Courtship, a laugh-out-loud funny short novel by Edward Salsbury Field, published in 1907 and telling of a young man's love for a girl and for a not-so-reliable automobile. I'd read the book aloud to my brother, sister-in-law, and parents one afternoon many years ago, and perhaps I laughed louder and longer than they did, but Dad remembered the tale and wanted to share it with someone new.

My first reaction to his request was an internal NO! I didn't want to lend a family memory to someone else. That was our laughter. That was our time.

Then I realized that sometimes forgiveness and healing are incremental. And, just because he shares the book with his new wife, it does not lessen the value of the book nor the memory.

Besides, I like Wife #4. Other than my mom, she's the best one he's married.

Looking back, I have this to regret, that too often when I loved, I did not say so.
David Grayson

I love you, Dad.

Granfa Grig, The Hobbit, and Finding My Way: a Ramble

2011-05-28T15:22:00.001-05:00

When it comes to writing new blog posts -- or writing fiction -- these past few weeks, I've become a sluggard.

Sluggard.

photo by Jose L. Ramos, from Amazon.com

Whenever I hear, read, or (in this case) type that word, I am reminded of a "nursery rhyme" I first encountered as a little kid while reading Granfa' Grig Had a Pig and Other Rhymes Without Reason (granfa' being short for grandfather):

Slug-a-bed, slug-a-bed, Barley Butt,
Your bum's so heavy, you can't get up.

If I recall correctly, the corresponding picture was of a pig in a too-small bed.

I don't know what's happened to my well-worn, well-loved copy of that insane and happy book of Mother Goose rhymes -- the illustrations are fantastic -- but I suspect I gave it to my niece or to some other child who would appreciate the goofiness that sometimes hides a comment on life.

The publication year is 1976, the year I turned five, went to kindergarten, and started learning to read -- the year before the animated version of The Hobbit was released. (Someone later gave me a copy of the read-along record, too.) I tend to say that Tolkien's novel was my introduction to the fantasy genre but, truthfully, all the nursery rhymes, fairy tales, tall tales, myths and legends that I'd heard and read before I finally picked up The Hobbit and read it for myself, those were really the beginning for me.

Isn't all fiction fantasy? After all, unless it's somehow autobiographical, based on history, or a modified version of fact, all fiction springs from the fantasies -- be they dark, merry, extravagant, simple -- of writers who let their imaginations roam free.

I used to get irritated at my dad analyzing Westerns, telling me that a horse had the wrong saddle or that an outlaw was using a gun that wouldn't work. "A real cowboy would never treat his horse that way," or "A man trying to hide would never ride the ridge like that, " and so on. My response was always, "So? It's not real life. It's a story. Anything can happen."

Well, technically, that's true. Just a story. Just a fantasy.

All stories are fantasies -- we make them up -- but even the most improbable fantasy should make sense within the parameters of its world.

Granfa' Grig can keep his pig (in a field of clover. Piggy died, Granfa' cried, and now the fun was over), Thor can wield his hammer, the three billygoats can fend off the trolls, Raven can play his tricks, and, sure, a fairy godmother can swoop in out of nowhere and make magic -- but has anyone else but me ever wondered where she came from and why in the world she'd help a perfect stranger go to the ball to meet the prince? I mean, what's her angle?

Maybe that's just the cynic in me, but everyone -- real or imaginary -- has a motive. What they say or do, what they believe, why they change or remain the same, it all has a reason. It may not be a very good reason, but it makes sense to them if to no one else.

So, even in fantasy, writers need to keep their facts straight, and be aware of the why of things.


photo by D. Friedman, on Amazon.com

I'm preaching to myself here. When I'm not sure where to go next with a story, I go back and try to get back inside the characters' heads, try to view a situation from their perspectives. What do they value? What do they need? What do they hate, love, want?

That doesn't mean I don't lose my way, but losing the path is part of the journey. Wander around, check out the forest, find a new route through the city, return to the main road, continue the journey.

Maybe while I'm spending time finding out what my characters will do next and why, I'll see a previously hidden path, surprising myself and, hopefully, the reader.

Bilbo Baggins met Gollum while trying to escape the trolls, thus placing himself in new and more intense danger -- the riddle scene is one of my favorites in literature -- and leading Tolkien to write the finding of a ring capable of making Bilbo invisible. In the beginning, it was just a magical ring. Only later did it grow in Tolkien's imagination to become the center of an epic fantasy, The Lord of the Rings.

The things we discover on the way can be treasures untold.

A Funny Spoiler for Thieves' Honor

2011-05-15T00:25:00.001-05:00

Saturday, I was generally a slug, mostly inert all day, but my mind was busy, and I've jumped from one writing project to another, pondering older projects that need new life, and progressing on more recent ones.

There's a joint project -- existing in partial scenes and handwritten notes -- that I need to start working on with my writing partner, and an old short story idea that may need expansion because its themes are so deep and broad they may not fit into a few thousand words without making the story appear to be a giant in a clown car.

As for Thieves' Honor, the following are notes on a scene for an upcoming episode; I laughed as I wrote them, so I figured you might laugh, too:

Someone wants to join the Vega crew -- who? why?
do they follow Ezra around?
pick at him?
admire him?

Corrigan tries to discourage them: "We're men of the worst sort."
Finney raises her eyebrows.
Corrigan amends: "We're women of the worst sort."
Wyatt scowls, and sucks his teeth.
Corrigan, embarrassed: "Well, anyway, we're the worst sort."

At the moment, the scene in progress involves Kristoff being recruited to be a thief.

Reminds me of Bilbo Baggins being told to go "burgle" something.

Update on Thieves' Honor

2011-05-01T00:08:00.001-05:00

By the way, Episode 14 of Thieves' Honor is up at Ray Gun Revival. This serial is probably the most experimental writing I've done -- and, well, experiments can be succeed wildly or fail dismally. You be the judge. This particular episode is an even further departure from my usual writing.

A friend suggested that I start taking bets or suggestions on how the lead, Captain Kristoff, is going to injure himself next. That may become a running gag in the series. This time, he's just about blown his eardrums by firing a giant gun in a confined space.

One thing I do need to keep track of, though, are all the potential plot developments. Right now, I'm deciding whether or not Kristoff gets to rid himself of the device in his head -- but the tension is richer, I think, if he has to keep it. And then has a showdown with the person who has the kill codes. Mwah-ha-ha-ha!

Also, I want to start exploring the fate of Ezra's parents, and what will be the fallout now that Lieutenant Mars and Ensign Gains have sprung Captain Zoltana from the brig?

But enough about me! My current favorite story up on the RGR site is "Suited for Command" by Adam Colston. Funny and original. Check it out.

The Mighty Pen, Teaching Kids Photography, and General Rambling

2011-04-29T14:01:00.000-05:00

At the youth organization where I work, we are hosting a regional photography contest in which entries from several states are being submitted. As I've been sorting boxes of photos, marveling at the photos taken by kids, I'm reminded of what little artistry I had when I first started taking snapshots on Mom's little point-and-shoot film camera, borrowed for a trip to Honduras when I was fifteen. Photographing people, I made them look like cons in mugshots. Landscapes were generally busy pictures with lots of stuff but no real focus.

Many years later, I have a much better camera, more experience looking at the world with a photographer's eye, but am still nowhere near being an expert. I teach the very basics to kids -- the goal is to interest them in photography, not teach a college course -- and try to help them see the world around them as full of picture potential, but I cannot make them creative. That's gotta come from inside their own minds.

After showing kids the "rule of thirds" or why it's important to be aware of light sources, shadows, clutter, it's always interesting -- and occasionally frustrating -- to observe how some young photographers will only pay attention to the rules, producing technical but uninteresting shots, and some will consistently toss the rules out the window, regardless of how many sloppy, unfocused, or just plain bad shots they produce.

after the storm c. April 2011, KB

The best students know there's a time to follow the rules -- "use a tripod for night shots", for instance -- and then there's a time to just go with your gut, take a shot for the fun of it, for the experiment of it, for the moment before the light fades completely, the basketball swooshes through the hoop, or the dancing stops. Y'never know what'll happen.

That's how a lot of my poetry has been written: not because I intended it and followed some rules -- "Today I am writing a poem, and it will be a sonnet" -- but because the words were there and must be recorded before the moment disappeared. Same with essays: I have something to say, it must be said now, and the structure of the essay is dictated by the theme or the subject. Even feature articles and interviews have rules, but those can be tossed to the winds when formality would kill the piece.

Speaking of kill -- in a purely lighthearted sense, of course (laugh) -- here's one of my favorite Geico commercials, probably because it appeals to literature, martial arts, and the absurd little humor gremlin inside my head:

Christ - An Easter Musical Celebration

2011-04-22T22:00:00.002-05:00

(click for Christ - Random Thoughts, Part 1 or Part 2)

Unlike the previous two, today's post is composed not so much random thoughts as it is the story of the Cross, comprised of videos of songs that have influenced and encouraged my faith. They remind me of the hope that awaits, that death is nothing to fear, that there is a love that surpasses any human emotion, that Life has conquered the grave.

So, in honor of Jesus Christ--

Video remix of Secret Ambition by Michael W. Smith,

or catch the original video here (complete with mullets, 'cause, hey, this was the 1980s).

Judas Kiss by Petra

(song only, no video montage, but the words are enough)

Watch the Lamb by Don Francisco

Rise Again by Dallas Holm

It Is Finished by Petra

In movies or church cantatas, the story usually ends there, but the songs below speak of the life we can have as a result of the death He died and the life He now lives:

Clean by Petra

Bound to Come Some Trouble by Rich Mullins

(This song literally saved my life during a dark, suicidal stretch of time when the cliff often looked more appealing than the road.)

Love That Will Not Let Me Go by Steve Camp

(just the song, but what a song)

Road to Zion by Petra

Grave Robber by Petra

It is finished.

Christ - Random Thoughts, Part 2

2011-04-21T22:00:00.000-05:00

(click here for Christ - Random Thoughts, Part 1)

Jesus told His disciples:

"You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven." -Matthew 5:14-16

I fall far short of that, my light often being only an uncertain flicker in the winds of impatience, selfishness, and other ugliness that obscures the flame. I am thankful, though, that -- despite human frailty, rebellion, and outright disbelief -- He will never be truly obscured. Like the moon to the sun, we can only reflect His light; we will never diminish it.

Recently, I went to Eureka Springs, Arkansas, home of The Great Passion Play, and the site of the Christ of the Ozarks, a blockish and simple-looking statue that can -- despite a controversial history -- move a person to deep reflection. The power is in the eyes, a gaze that's almost alive.

The day I took the photo below, the wind was tossing the trees, but I kept fiddling with the camera, trying (unsuccessfully) for an artistic shot. However, despite the wind, the branches parted long enough to frame the statue's face.

Christ of the Ozarks, Eureka Springs, Arkansas c. 2011, KB

No, I do not worship an image, nor do I know the actual features in the face of Christ. Yet, sitting on the bench under the awning, and gazing up the slope directly into that impassive and yet challenging visage, I felt a lump rise up in my throat, and tears gathered at the corners of my eyes.

Christ of the Ozarks, Eureka Springs, Arkansas c. 2011, KB

In line of that gaze, I sensed a little of what Peter must have felt, looking into the face of Jesus after denying -- even cursing -- Him. Yet He looked on him with compassion.

I am forever amazed at the cross, at what He did for me. I, a coward when it comes to pain I know is on the way, cannot fathom His choosing to go through such agony that I might be free.

"Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death." -Romans 8:1,2

Todd Burrows posted this awesome video using scenes from The Passion of the Christ to illustrate the song Didn't He, performed by Geoff Moore, an artist whose songs the teenaged and twenty-something me belted out while listening to them on the radio. Didn't He still gets me every time, with good reason:

Christ - Random Thoughts, Part 1

2011-04-20T22:00:00.005-05:00

It's coming on Easter. While the thoughts of some turn toward chocolate bunnies and marshmallow chickens, mine turn toward the cross, Christ's crucifixion, His resurrection -- the hope of His return.

"I thought this was a blog about writing!" and you can stop reading now, groan, and say, "Ugh, yet another fool proselytizing for a non-existent deity." Free will, dude.

But what does this writer believe about Him, the great Storyteller whose wisdom and parables are still life-changing?

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God...Through Him all things were made...In Him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it. -John 1:1-6

Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me." -John 14:6

Jesus said to her, "I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?" -John 11:25,26

Jesus replied, "Go back and report to John what you hear and see: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is preached to the poor. Blessed is the man who does not fall away on account of me." -Matthew 11:4-6

"...(S)urely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." -Matthew 28:20

Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written. -John21:25

And, as the late Larry Norman wrote and the late Dana Key sang, He was -- and is -- an outlaw:

Although Key's version is more singable, and sticks in my head, this powerful video features scenes from The Gospel of John (Lost fans will recognize "Desmond" as Jesus), and the unmistakeable voice of Larry Norman singing the 1970s version of his own song:

Images from My Retreat

2011-04-19T11:54:00.000-05:00

Went on what was supposed to be a writing retreat this past weekend, but ended up wandering around and taking far more photos than writing.

I'm such a slacker.

Just want to say, "Thanks again, Bubba and Bubba's Wife, for the camera. It's been getting a lot of use in the past year and a half."

As for the writing that was done, however, and the writing that is planned -- a collaboration with a friend -- I think my mind and skills are about to be stretched and challenged. I'm looking forward to it.

Field Trip Follies

2011-03-25T18:41:00.001-05:00

Today was the last day of spring break for the public schools in my area, and I took a van-load of Boys & Girls Club kids to Mount Magazine for a photography field trip.

The weather didn't cooperate, being colder and more windy than anticipated. I tried to stick with the plan despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, but the agenda -- while still clinging to photography as its original purpose -- degenerated into fun-and-games, complaints about how cold the weather had turned, and general messing with one another's psyches and possessions.

The road up the mountain is steep and winding -- already a little exciting in a regular vehicle, and even more so in a big 12-passenger van. Despite my caution while driving, this became the phrase of the day: "Oh no, we're all gonna die!"

There were a few variations, including "We're all gonna die! Oh, look. A cow."

At one point imitating the squiggle-like signs indicating curves in the road, the kids did a silly dance. I explained -- loudly -- that when the passengers did the wiggle, the van did the wiggle, and if they all didn't stop, we were gonna wiggle down the mountainside. To which one boy replied, "And if you make me die, I'm gonna come back and kill all of you once you're dead."

Now, that's some shining logic if I ever heard it.

My fellow chaperon was trying to teach the kids some words in French, including touche (touch) / toucher (to touch). A holler from the back of the van: "Christina, can I touche your head?"

I laughed till I cried.

Which caused more dismay with the driving.

Which caused another round of "Oh no, Oh no, we're all gonna die!"

Vicious cycle, I tell ya.

Since I had allowed some of the kids to choose walking sticks at our first stop this morning, they had makeshift swords and spears that they strove to sharpen on the rocks whenever we stopped to take more photos. Once we returned to civilization for a mid-afternoon snack at a local park, the walking sticks made another appearance as one boy challenged the chaperon carrying the bag of sandwiches, "I'll sword-fight you for my lunch."

She just looked at him, and the sword became a walking stick once more.

Ah, good times.

I am home, alive, unmaimed, and with what I hope are some good pictures chronicling our day.

The best part? Everyone had so much fun, they want to go on the same trip again, "but, next time, can we go in the summer when it's warm?"

Absolutely.

The Resurrection by Mike Duran

2011-03-22T18:44:00.086-05:00

So, along with several other bloggers, I've been reading The Resurrection, a new novel by Mike Duran.

Not really sure which slot to put this one in (does it need one?), though some folks have likened this story to the work of Frank Peretti, whose novels hit me at a young age with their topics of angels and demons at war, New Age teaching, abortion, the true nature of sin, lost faith restored.

Some of those themes underpin the plot of The Resurrection, too, as well as the influence of paganism and dark powers over not only people but places. Possession, obsession, totems, and even ghosts are part of the story. But I'm not going to dive into deep theological or philosophical discussion; Duran does that quite well in the book.

While attending a funeral for a teenage boy named Armando ("Mondo"), Ruby Case -- housewife, mom, devoted believer in Christ -- leans over the casket and prays. Nothing fancy. Nothing loud or showy. Just between her and God:

Thank you for the Amayas and sweet, simple Armando. Have mercy on them, O God.

No pleading. Not a word about a miracle.

But when she steps away from the casket, she unknowingly turns her back on a miracle.

Mondo sits up in his casket and looks around.

The rest of the novel reveals how Ruby's life -- and the lives of her friends, her family, her community, and her wandering soul of a pastor -- is changed and challenged as a result of the resurrection. The city's evil past is revealed, and the evil still present fights to keep the territory that may be lost if the faithless return to the fold. And what's with the ghost that haunts the pastor's office?

With an intriguing premise like that, I expected to be engrossed in the novel right away. However, it took me a while to get through the first three or four chapters. I can't point to any particular flaw in the storytelling, and I could have just been distracted with work and other obligations; but, eventually, the story did grab my attention, and then I quickly sailed through the rest of it.

One question that I kept waiting for one of the characters to talk about was never asked. Although various explanations for the resurrection were offered, no one stated what to me was obvious: What about embalming? If people just thought there was a medical error, that Mondo wasn't really dead in the first place, then what about the embalming process?

No mention is made in the story that the Amaya family or their faith prohibited it. And when the skeptics raised their doubts, no one pointed out the awesome power of a God who could raise not just the dead, but the dead whose bodies had been so chemically altered that there was no hope of reviving them.

But Duran could have purposely avoided that topic, since it might have significantly derailed the story. As a writer, sometimes you have to make the hard decisions about what adds to the core story, and what's going to distract from it.

Overall, The Resurrection is a good read. There's mystery, danger, challenges to faith and relationships, and even moments of humor, one of my favorites being this, when the no-longer-wandering minister faces an unexpected antagonist at an old grave:

The smell of fresh green grass filled his nostrils, but Clark had no time to enjoy it. He scrambled to his feet, eyes darting from the hooded dwarf to Jack, who was lying stunned, still sucking air. So much for Jack's physical prowess. Suddenly Clark's confidence in his own physical fitness withered.

The woman watched Jack writhing and tipped her head toward the man. "This is Breyven, the local warlock. He guards the gate, and right now, you better man up."

He'd never confronted a genuine warlock, and with one standing in front of him, Clark felt rather intrigued, as if discussing the man's religious history and upbringing might shed light on this problematic lifestyle choice. But seeing Jack writhing in the mud prevented any sort of meaningful dialogue with the hooded imp.

See? Fun and philosophy.

I'm late joining the March blog tour, haven't yet had a chance to read what others are saying, and am only posting a review one day rather than three. However, there are a lot more people out there talking about this book. Check out what they have to say:
Noah Arsenault
Brandon Barr
Red Bissell
Book Reviews By Molly
Kathy Brasby
Grace Bridges
Beckie Burnham
Melissa Carswell
Jeff Chapman
Christian Fiction Book Reviews
Carol Bruce Collett
Valerie Comer
Karri Compton
Wanda Costinak
Amy Cruson
CSFF Blog Tour
Janey DeMeo
Cynthia Dyer
Tori Greene
Nikole Hahn
Katie Hart
Joleen Howell
Bruce Hennigan
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Jason Joyner
Carol Keen
Emily LaVigne
Shannon McNear
Matt Mikalatos
Rebecca LuElla Miller
Mirtika
Joan Nienhuis
Nissa
John W. Otte
Gavin Patchett
Sarah Sawyer
Andrea Schultz
Tammy Shelnut
Kathleen Smith
Donna Swanson
Jessica Thomas
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Dona Watson
Phyllis Wheeler
Nicole White
Dave Wilson

A Burden of Books

2011-03-12T22:55:00.001-06:00

What if what you love is not what you need? Yeah, addicts face this dilemma, but I can't really call an addiction a love, can I?

What about obsession? That's not really love, either.

Since before I ever learned to read, I've loved stories. As soon as I discovered the joy of reading for myself, books became my drug of choice. Although I did acquire discriminating tastes as I grew older, in my earlier years I pretty much read whatever came my way; I was a literary sponge.

Now, I'm clearing my shelves, and there are many. It's an unthinkable thing to do for a bibliophile -- to let books go -- but since I'm getting rid of ballast in other areas of my life, this is a logical act.

There are books that will remain, of course, but I would like to contain them all on only half the bookcases currently overflowing their capacity. And, Saturday afternoon, it was freeing and kinda fun to help my mother go along the shelves and choose from among the treasures that I once would never have loaned, let alone given.

The same will occur with my movie collection, already shrunken since the winnowing of last summer, yet still in need of a good thinning.

I never considered myself a collector until recently. After all, I didn't have a slew of Matchbox cars or Hot Wheels in shadow boxes on the walls, nor did I plunk down money on memorabilia or things that had to be hermetically sealed or constantly dusted. I was a curator of sorts, amassing a library of fiction and history and resources.

No, in recent months I had to admit that, in truth, I have become a collector, obtaining for the mere sake of having, not necessarily using or enjoying.

So, here I go, setting myself free.

The God Hater

2011-02-21T02:09:00.000-06:00

"Remember the Reverse Engineering lab we talked about?" Travis said. "How I used R.E. to add the more detailed traits to our program?...Well, that's old school. The team now has things refined to where we can download an entire personality—thoughts, emotions, memories—the whole enchilada. So we record all that information, download it into a new dude, and there you have him, live and in person."

"Whose personality?" Nicholas asked Travis. "Yours?"...

"...We're working off your blueprint, bro."...

Dixon nodded in understanding. "I've been briefed on your fear of technology, Doctor. Let me assure you there is absolutely no danger. It is merely a matter of recording your brain functions. Nothing more."

"But if I refuse?"

Dixon's response was slow and deliberate. "Then, as I said, the board will have to seriously evaluate whether or not to continue the program."

"And the characters?" Nicholas turned to Travis. "The ones you've invested so much time creating?"

Travis shrugged, then looked away.

Dixon answered. "All the elements of the program would have to be destroyed. Their world, their community, and all of the characters with it."

And that's a problem, because Dr. Nicholas Mackenzie, curmudgeonly old professor and staunch atheist, has come to care about the computer-generated characters he's watching up on the screen. And now he's about to become one of them.

Bill Myers' new novel, The God Hater, is an excellent read, intelligent, intriguing, well-written, and timely, a powerful story.

Themes include the Law versus Love, rebellion and forgiveness, the sovereignty and compassion of God, free will, self-sacrifice, and how following the rules is never enough to truly live.

In the real world, Nicholas is a professor at the University of California, Santa Barbara. He relies on his intelligence, debating skills, and knack for discomfiting his opponents. He doesn't need God or any other crutch. He has his philosophies and counterarguments. Yet he has befriended a young single mom, also a professor, and her son. Their one flaw? Their faith in God.

In the AI (artificial intelligence) world, created by his brother for polling and market research, "lives" a man called Alpha, whose face and personality Nicholas has cause to know well. They belong to someone dead for many years.

Speaking into this world to end the bloody results of "survival of the fittest", which is negating the original purpose of the program since all the characters keep getting killed off, Nicholas is, at first, only a voice to Alpha—Programmer's voice that speaks Programmer's Law: You are a steward of this world. You are sacred because you were programmed to be like us. Do what I say and take authority. You are the stewards. You are what is sacred. Treat one another as though you are sacred. Treat one another as you would treat me.

Sounds good, right? Just what the AIs need to hear to guide them away from slaughter, away from "every man for himself", and set them on a path toward progress and enlightenment.

But soon not even the Law can save the world. Enter the computer-generated version of Nicholas, who goes to be the presence of Programmer to the people. He becomes the Law—the Word—made digital flesh.

What happens next changes not only the AIs, but Nicholas—real and digital—until the real-world Nicholas can no longer control his computer self, who begins to literally take on the ills of others in an effort to heal them.

When I read that portion of the story, I couldn't help but be reminded of this passage: He made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him (2 Corinthians 5:21, NASB).

And yet, despite the deep spiritual themes in this novel, it is never preachy or heavy-handed, and non-Christians will enjoy this story. If there's a weakness, it's in the corporate espionage plot thread, that always seemed a little thin to me. However, if it were expanded, it would detract from the main story, and probably drag the pace.

I'm only writing a single review, but the CSFF Blog Tour covers three days, so check out the other stops on the tour (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday), and read what others are writing about The God Hater:
Noah Arsenault
Red Bissell
Thomas Clayton Booher
Kathy Brasby
Rachel Briard
Beckie Burnham
Morgan L. Busse
Carol Bruce Collett
Valerie Comer
Karri Compton
CSFF Blog Tour
April Erwin
Amber French
Andrea Graham
Tori Greene
Katie Hart
Ryan Heart
Joleen Howell
Bruce Hennigan
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Becca Johnson
Jason Joyner
Carol Keen
Emily LaVigne
Shannon McDermott
Matt Mikalatos
Rebecca LuElla Miller
Mirtika
MollyBuuklvr81
John W. Otte
Sarah Sawyer
Chawna Schroeder
Andrea Schultz
Tammy Shelnut
Kathleen Smith
James Somers
Donna Swanson
Jessica Thomas
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Dona Watson
Nicole White
Dave Wilson

What I'm Learning from Korean Television

2011-02-18T04:43:00.000-06:00

It all started several weeks ago when I mis-read a link on the Hulu homepage: "If you are not Keanan, click here."

I did a double-take, thinking it said, "If you are not Korean."

Realizing my mistake, I laughed aloud, but not having anyone to share the amusement with me, I posted the goof on Facebook, hoping others would get at least a small smile from it.

Then, a few days later, while searching for something interesting to watch, I happened upon a recommendation for a Korean historical fiction series, "The Great Queen SeonDeok". It's a long'un, and I gave up around Episode 50, wearied by the political machinations, fears, false friends, and such that were part of the battle the title character faced on her way to the throne.

Still, despite my loss of interest in continuing to the final episode, I was drawn to the core story and to a small group of characters who seemed, even in their broadest and most caricatured portrayals, to be appealing and real. One of my favorites is portrayed by an actor that is written of in reviews as "wooden" or "a terrible actor", but I don't think those viewers understand the character, who wouldn't be going about showing all his emotions and talking about his feelings. His thoughts are his own, until he deems it necessary to reveal them. For my part, I think he says a lot by a simple look. No words required.

Besides, it keeps the mystery alive.

That's something more writers need to learn, a new take on an old saying: sometimes, characters need to be seen and not heard.

One effective storytelling device used often in the series is one that is anathema to some in publishing (if one pays any attention to the often useless "advice" doled out at writing conferences and seminars): the flashback.

A flashback can consist of a character's memory of an event, told in brief, or it can be an extended scene, chapter, or many chapters, in which the past is revealed to the reader. Some writers "bookend" stories by beginning and ending them in the novels' "present time", but unfolding the bulk of the plot via the stories' past. This can be done through letters, diary entries, newspaper articles, or simply the memories of a character or characters. In "The Great Queen", this device was used to good effect when viewers needed to finally be let in on a secret (aka plot twist).

From that show, I went on to IRIS, which is kinda like "Alias". Again, I stopped short of watching every episode (in this case, the last two of the first season). However, the characters are intriguing, the story is twisty, and this action-y spy show doesn't shy away from letting its characters -- men included -- show emotion, even cry.

I'm still kinda iffy on that. I might put in an emotional scene, but then I'll delete it, or cut it down so much that ends up being matter-of-fact rather than squishy. One emotion that's not difficult for me to write is anger. But love? Grief? That's tough, tough, tough to get right. At least for me. But emotions are a part of life. And cold logic doesn't always play a part in emotional responses. Make characters real by giving them real emotions.

Then I fell into the time-sucking addiction of "Chuno", an excellent historical drama laced with humor and emotion, and packed with action; I'm a few episodes away from the end, and I plan on watching every one. There are minor characters that exist for comedic effect, local color, and connective tissue for the main characters and/or events of the story, but even the minorest of minor characters feels real. The main cast are interesting, not a cardboard cutout in the bunch, and -- love 'em or hate 'em -- they're neither predictable or boring.

Ever read several stories by the same author, and realize that all he or she has done is tell the same story over and over and over?

Dagnabbit! Sometimes I think I write stories with the same basic cast of characters: just change names and ages, put one set in outer space and the other set in medieval Europe, and presto! I move from science fiction to high fantasy. I can't get too comfortable. I can't avoid "meeting" new characters. Even ones I don't like so much.

And, in a totally different vibe, there's the 2010 modern comedy series, "Pasta", in which a somewhat whiny but steel-spined young kitchen assistant becomes a junior chef learning from and falling in love with a loud, strict, talented new chef who grates on just about everyone who meets him.

Again, I think some of the reviewers miss the point. They complain about the junior chef being such a baby, but they overlook her resolve, her persistence, her drive to excel. They ask why she wants the love and approval of a chef who constantly tells her to make a dish over or that she's doing something wrong, but they overlook the fact that she doesn't want flattery, or the emptiness of "nice" words. She sees the chef's demands for what they are: a desire on the chef's part to see her succeed, perhaps a desire even greater than her own.

From my perspective, it's not a case of a girl overlooking the nice guy because the bad boy is more interesting. It's a case of "Don't tell me what you think I want to hear. Tell me what I need to know so I can be better. And not just better, but the best." She respects that more than the nice guy's flattery, as sincere as he may be.

I know that desire: Don't tell me it's a good story. Tell me why it does or doesn't work. Show me the flaws. Help me be better than I am now.

It's a desire I wish more rookie writers had. Editing or critiquing the work of a writer who thinks he's already arrived, who thinks her words are perfect in the first draft -- that's an exercise in futility. Such a writer cannot and will not improve because he or she will not learn.

So, looks like I'll be reading a lot more subtitles in the future, gleaning all I can to hopefully improve my own storytelling skills while admiring--and learning from--the skills of others.

2011-02-06T21:31:00.000-06:00

Yeah, it's too late for Christmas poems, and this one's kinda sappy, but I don't write poetry often, composing this when family visited back in December. It doesn't have a title, though a couple have been suggested (my sister-in-law offered "Three Nieces" as a possibility). Your suggestions are welcome.

Confession: Although I work with kids, and have done so for years, I still feel awkward around them, and the dancing mentioned in the poem below does not come from any place of talent on my part, but because it's just one way I know of to entertain the youngest ones still small enough to be carried and who like to crazy dizzy sense of flying that whirling and dipping can bring. Hey, I used to love it when a grownup would lift me up and let me "play airplane" by swinging me in a wide circle.

So, here goes.

Jennifer is taller now
than the artificial Christmas tree
I sold at a yard sale in July,
and Rachel has a sweet voice
she uses in long conversations
that only she can understand.
As for Sarah, she is small,
barely begun, a life unexplored,
with wide eyes and a serious stare.
This is her first Christmas here
on Earth, but the only gifts I have
for her are love and hugs and laughs
and maybe dancing around
the kitchen, holding her in my arms,
making up the music as we
twirl and step and bump into
the fridge then swing 'round and start again
in a family tradition
begun when Jennifer first
was small and loved to dance to silly
tunes and giggle and call for more.
Rachel, too, still likes to dance,
but she hops on her own sturdy feet
and runs in circles through the house
or down the hall, chattering,
screaming in false fright then in laughter,
a merry whirlwind that rarely
pauses, but sometimes snuggles
close, blanket-wrapped like a babushka.
Jenn, taller than the Christmas tree,
reads books, writes poems, her words
dancing though her feet so rarely do.
Yet we dance however we may--
it's Christmas-time with family,
the warmest time, the coldest day.

c. December 2010, KB

Excerpts

2011-01-24T01:42:00.000-06:00

As I've been catching up on a belated editing assignment, a manuscript I've read and re-read over the last few years, I've been working on a couple of my own projects, a sequel in a fantasy cycle and a modern urban something-or-other. Some might call it "paranormal", some might call it "dark fantasy", but it doesn't really have a category yet.

Anyway, as I was editing the fantasy, one part made me laugh, as if someone else had written it and I was reading it for the first time. It's dark humor, and told from the point of view of a captain who is going mad; although he doubts the crazy things he sees, they are—unfortunately—really there:

Nelek stepped forward, but a flicker of warning—perhaps the tug of his own imaginings—pulled him up short, and he stood, uncertain.
It was an uncomfortable thing, uncertainty.
He did not have to endure it for long.
A ghost stood before him. “You look well, Captain Nelek.” The familiar voice was strong and mocking, scarce to be expected of an apparition. “Would you not say the same of me?”
Nelek tightened his grip on the hilt, wondering if his sword was any defense against a phantom. He had already dispatched the man once with a blade.
Perhaps a pike this time? Flail? Battleaxe?
“You are but the fabric of nightmare,” Nelek declared, shaking off fear with laughter. “I see you not.”
“Oh, but you do. You do.” The ghost smiled. “I am solid as your own flesh, though no longer as mortal.”
It touched a livid slash across its cheek, and the corresponding cut on Nelek’s face pained him anew. The cold wind of foreboding blew across his skin. “You are dead. I killed you. Your soul escaped with your breath. You abide in the Otherland now, or howl in the Highlands. The Dragon has conjured you to frighten me.”
The shade replied, “On the contrary. I still draw breath. And will continue to do so after you are long sped to the Otherland.”

Beyond this point, Nelek's madness increases, but his "faithful" sidekick, Teague, is with him all along the journey, exacting a measure of revenge merely by being alive. I hope to play up some of their conflicts, as long as the story isn't sidetracked or bogged down as a result.

This re-read / edit has not only helped me tighten up the story, it has also reoriented me regarding plot threads that need to be followed. I'd forgotten, for instance, that a major character had started on a journey that was sidetracked in a big way; although all of that wandering played to the plot, he needs to get back to his original journey, which is also important to future events.

In this scene from the as-yet-unclassified manuscript, Brygid and her adoptive brother Yasha are taking an ancient truck for maintenance at a "classic car" lot—not exactly the grand stuff of literature, but it plays to character and plot, and made me smile when I wrote it:

A man in blue coveralls and only slightly taller than me wipes his hands on a red grease rag as he approaches. "What can I do for ya?"

Yasha offers the crumpled slip of paper, and the man hesitates before plucking it from between my brother's bandaged fingers, but he doesn't ask the question that raises his eyebrows.

"Hey, you on the Benz, knock that off and come over here. Priority customer."

The kid under the Benz rolls out and gives the truck a doubtful look.

"It's a classic, kid," says the man I take to be Carmine. "Don't knock it."

Then he gestures at me and Yasha. "Come in, have a soda, put your feet up. You can watch the whole thing from the lounge." He grins, and his teeth are a brilliant white in his black-streaked face. "Windows. Only way to keep some of these boys honest."

Not exactly inspiring. I nevertheless accept his offer for a cold soda and the shade of "the lounge", but not even the promise of air conditioning can compete with spectacle of cars with fins or sideboards or rumble seats. Yasha drinks his soda outside, and peppers the mechanics with questions, peers under hoods, then uses an abandoned dolly to roll underneath an impeccable Mustang. Carmine sees his legs sticking out from under the car, pulls on his feet, slaps a wrench across the gauze-wrapped palm, and—I interpret from the gestures—tells him to loosen something under our truck. Then Carmine kicks the dolly backward. My brother sails across the concrete, one hand over his head, catches the front tire then guides the dolly under the truck.

I shake my head. Boys.

It's after four o'clock when we pay the bill and leave. The truck is washed, the oil changed, the tires checked, wiper fluid topped off, new spark plugs installed, as well as a fresh oil filter and windshield wipers. I lose track of the other maintenance. All I know is that, compared to the way it sounded when we first arrived, the truck almost purrs.

Carmine puts his hand through the open window, and I shake his grubby paw. He slides a folded piece of paper into my hand. "Next time you see Vinny."

"Might not be for a couple weeks, maybe longer."

He shrugs. "Next time."

"I'm not running something illegal."

"I wouldn't insult Vinny like that."

All right, then. I push the note into my jeans pocket.

Carmine waves as I back out of the space and into the street.

With a grease-blackened bandage, Yasha tosses him a wave and calls a good-bye, then sits back against the hot vinyl seat and sighs. "Did you see all those cars?"

"Maybe I'll call Carmine next week and arrange a play date."

"Really?"

Boys.

I hope to have both manuscripts ready to submit soon. If life permits.

all material c. 2010 Keanan Brand

Quest for the Missing Photographers

2011-01-19T23:02:00.000-06:00

Awesome story, awesome photos.

Oooh, Exciting

2011-01-18T23:53:00.002-06:00

My characters tend to do dangerous things, but I live a very ordinary and quiet life.

Lately, however, I've been spoiling for excitement. So I decided to do something really dangerous: take photos while driving.

I know, I know. But it's the adrenaline rush, y'see.

Some of those photos can be seen in my Facebook album entitled "The View from My Truck", and a few snow-less December shots can be seen below.

As you can see, there's a touch of Norman Rockwell around my town, and that suits me right down to the ground, as the old saying goes. After all, American flags line Main Street -- yes, Main Street -- and even adorn the front of the funeral home. Small-town America is my kinda place.

Pickiness = Slow Going

2011-01-12T11:25:00.000-06:00

I went looking along my own shelves yesterday for reading material, and picked up an old favorite that's been sitting idle for a long, long time. Sure, the writing doesn't rise to the level of classic literature, but the story keeps my attention, doesn't seem as long as it really is (a few hundred pages), and is one of those stories that generates discussion. That's what I call a good book.

When it comes to actual classics, there are a few I cannot read no matter how many times I try, but then there are those novels that have been around for centuries but feel fresh in their stories or their language, and are perennially readable.

Problem with my own stories: I keep tearing them apart and putting them back together, and little progress is being made at the moment. I want them to be fresh, well-written, move along at a good clip, make people think. Dagnabbit, I'm a perfectionist. That's anathema to production.

So, despite my ambitions, I'm gonna move this process along, and send out a less-than-perfect piece some time this coming weekend.

And maybe I'll read some more in that old favorite. But only after the writing is out the door.

2011-01-07T12:03:00.001-06:00

Yeah, I know I said I would be posting a review of C.S. Lakin's The Wolf of Tebron later this month, after the CSFF Blog Tour was finished, and one should always strive to keep one's word, but -- in this instance -- I have decided against posting a review.

1) Other bloggers on the tour have echoed my thoughts, and have probably stated them more clearly and professionally than I can at the moment;
2) Lakin can use words well, and write intriguing paragraphs or well-crafted sentences, but the story never grabbed me and compelled me to sit down and read it -- rather, I had to force myself to open the book;
3) Although I subscribe to the goal of the blog tour -- to promote works of speculative fiction that have a Christian worldview or influence behind them -- the fact that a book report is required has robbed my enjoyment in reading;
4) Life happens, and I'm not in the proper mind to give a balanced perspective. In other words, the compartments aren't functioning at full capacity.

Therefore, no review.

However, since the publisher did send me a free copy on the basis that it would be reviewed, that copy will be returned. And, since I'm such a stickler for clean pages, uncreased spines, and generally treating one's books with care, this paperback looks untouched. That's not an anomaly: even books I've read many times can look almost pristine. Like I said, I'm a stickler!

It probably accounts for my reluctance to loan certain books to certain people, knowing the books will be returned in shabbier condition than when they left my library, but that's a discussion for another time.

And if this post has a touch of the crotchety old codger about it, well, I'm still working on the developing a Wilson v. House approach, so bear with me.

Modern Mentoring and Where I Find Story Ideas

2011-01-01T18:28:00.001-06:00

When I was a kid and discovered writing -- not as an exercise in penmanship, but as the art of storytelling -- mentors were few but encouraging. Despite my peers' lack of interest, mockery, or strange awe, I persevered, due in large part to the adults who pushed and applauded and guided my first tottering efforts.

Back then, hanging out alone with a grownup who was a stranger to my parents didn't seem like a danger. After all, that grownup was a writer who was interested in my manuscript. The help I received is remembered today.

Now, I get to be that mentor to younger writers, most of them members of the youth organization where I work. It's a public environment, and nervous parents can check in at any time. E-mail contact is kept to a minimum, and is on-target. Not a lot of chitchat. After all, the innocence of my growing-up years has been replaced by fear and predators. I need to protect myself as much as I need to protect the children.

A teen writer recently contacted me because of a book review she'd read on this blog, and that prompted an intermittent e-mail conversation. If her messages are any indication, she's enthusiastic and eager to learn her craft. It's a tightrope for me, encouraging her efforts without saying anything that might be misconstrued.

She asked a question about where story ideas come from, and thinking that something in my reply might be helpful to other writers, I've included the excerpt below (edited to protect her identity):

This time of year has been absorbed with family for Christmas, end-of-year projects at work, and so forth. Not as much writing as I would like, but I've made a little progress. Some writers schedule time every day to write, and I've tried that -- in fact, I do it when I participate in National Novel-Writing Month in November -- but it's not something I can keep up forever. Rigid schedules are not for me; unfortunately, perhaps, because following a schedule would very likely make me more productive.

I'm also easily distracted by the stories that others tell: movies, books, TV series ... I love stories! But I need to write my own.

In your previous message, you wrote: How do you go about discovering new ways of writing other than through reading?

Ever write down your nightmares? Your good dreams? Your crazy dreams? I generally keep a notebook and pen beside the bed for just that reason, or to record the fantastic ideas that often come just as I'm drifting off or waking up. There's a scientific reason why our brains do that -- make connections or operate creatively at those moments -- but I can't recall the precise details. Suffice to say, be prepared to record whatever your subconscious mind decides to bring to forefront. Some stuff may be totally wacked out, some of it may be brilliant -- write it all down.

I can get story ideas from just about anywhere:

1) visiting historic sites, museums, galleries (ruins, exhibits, paintings -- all good story material);
2) walking around town or in the countryside while taking photographs;
3) catching sight of something while I'm driving down the road:
4) listening to an old song, an interview, a news story, etc., on the radio;
5) looking at book covers in the store or at the library;
6) observing people in the park, the mall, an event (listening to their conversations or watching their expressions and interactions can help with character creation and/or conflicts);
7) hearing or remembering old family stories, with their mix of fact and fiction, and shaping them into something new (I did that with an award-winning short story once);
8) using Bible stories as the framework or inspiration for a modern-day version (you might check out some of the historical fiction by Liz Curtis Higgs -- I know she's done that);
9) using my own life -- but sometimes years have had to pass before I could write about troubling events;
10) talking to my brother, his wife, my dad or mom, friends, people who are experts or know about certain topics (bouncing ideas off trusted people or gleaning ideas from people who are pros in their fields can lead to good stories).

There are probably many more ways stories have come to me over the years. You'll have your ways, too.

I recall visiting a nearby Civil War battlefield on a Sunday afternoon with my family. A friend had come with us, and we we'd eaten dinner after church then went to the battlefield. There are some cabins on the grounds, and they house museum exhibits, etc. I was fascinated. My friend was bored. This person thought I was morbid and weird because I kept staring at a blood-stained, bullet-hole-riddled uniform while imagining the terror, the pain, the soldier must have experienced. And then there's the vast silence of the battlefield -- just looking at it, listening to the wind through the wooden fence, seeing the tall brown grass bend, can bring tears to the eyes. How many dead are still buried there? What carnage did this land, that forest, see? I stood, overwhelmed, on the edge of the battlefield. Behind me, my friend complained.

I don't think that person ever hung out with me again!

But that experience, more than all the historic books I've read or war movies I've seen, brought home the bigness of war.

I've never been in the military, but my father is a Vietnam veteran, so I'd heard his stories and seen the effects of war on his life. That has helped when I write about men involved in war.

So, whaddya think? Encouraging and informative?

One of my writerly resolutions for the new year is to improve my approach to editing and critiquing the work of other writers. If you follow television, you'll understand when I say I'm more House than Wilson, which is not exactly encouraging to old hands let alone new writers. But I'm trying.

Just as one becomes a writer by writing, I hope to become a better mentor by simply mentoring.

(lifting my favorite pen) Here's to a new year of words, stories, and crazy imagination.

A Brief Commentary: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

2010-12-27T19:58:00.004-06:00

Let me be frank (unless Frank, of course, objects): I don't like the new film version of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

What's Hollywood's problem? A classic tale, beloved by myriad readers, must be so re-written that it becomes not only barely recognizable but so watered-down and shallow that its great themes are pallid versions of themselves, if indeed they still exist?

Of what are the Hollywood types afraid? The faith that inspired the stories? Or do they think they're actually improving a classic series? Poor benighted fools. Arrogant fools.

I enjoyed the new The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, as well as the new Prince Caspian, despite unnecessary changes that weakened the story, but The Voyage of the Dawn Treader? Ack. There are no words.

The search for seven swords? Huh? Were the makers envisioning a mash-up with some other fantasy tale?

As for the dragon, his transformation back to regular boy is only given a passing swipe by Aslan's claws -- not even that, really, since the lion never touches the dragon. Not exactly how the story goes, as I recall.

And what about the sacrifice required of the crew -- and gladly made by Reepicheep -- in the story that C.S. Lewis actually wrote? At the end of the adventure, when the lamb becomes a lion, well, those God-fearing filmmakers (and I mean God-fearing in the sense that they have a decided nervousness toward, phobia about, or negative view of God) omitted such an obvious Christian element.

In this current film adaptation -- more like decapitation -- the depth and vision of the story is lost. However, the young actor portraying Eustace Scrubb is spot-on: perfectly annoying, and with excellent comic delivery.

A closer adaptation of all three stories can be found in the BBC television serialization from the late 1980s. No, the special effects aren't slick, and some are -- literally -- cartoons. However, the creatures are creatively done, with either green screen or imaginative costuming and makeup. (Not only is Reepicheep one of my favorite characters, but the costume is perfect.) And, viewing this series, fans of the books are not so prone to throwing things at the screen.

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-24T11:22:00.000-06:00

First, the funny:

And now the serious:

He was born in an obscure village,
The child of a peasant woman.
He grew up in another obscure village
Where he worked in a carpenter shop
Until He was 30.

He never wrote a book.
He never held an office.
He never went to college.
He never visited a big city.

He never traveled more than 200 miles
From the place where He was born.
He did none of the things
Usually associated with greatness.
He had no credentials but Himself.

He was only 33
When He died.
His friends ran away.
One of them denied Him.

He was turned over to His enemies
And went through the mockery of a trial.
He was nailed to a cross between two thieves.
While dying, His executioners gambled for His clothing,
The only property He had on earth.

When He was dead,
He was laid in a borrowed grave
Through the pity of a friend.

Twenty centuries have come and gone
And today Jesus is the central figure of the human race
And the leader of mankind's progress.

All the armies that have ever marched,
All the navies that have ever sailed,
All the parliaments that have ever sat,
All the kings that ever reigned put together
Have not affected the life of mankind on earth
As powerfully as that One Solitary Life.

-- Dr. James Allan Francis, 1925

Never Quite Finished

2010-12-22T22:24:00.000-06:00

Novelists know the relief of reaching the last word of the last sentence of the last paragraph of the last page. It's a short-lived relief, because then the hard work begins.

But hard work need not mean unwelcome work. It's in the editing that I can get some of my best ideas.

Lately, however, after doing a spit-and-shine polish on a manuscript that had been cooling for a few months, I realized that material I'd cut a long time ago needed to be re-inserted. The story felt flat without it.

Crazy how that works. In the interest of keeping a plot moving along, I cut a scene here, a line of dialogue there. And then, in the interest of fleshing out the story, making it feel real, giving it depth, I go back and add new material or realize that the old stuff actually works.

Whatever happens -- deletions or additions -- my intention is to serve the story.

In the last few weeks, however, I haven't written much, and editing has been scant. Part of the reason lies in an injury to my right (write?) arm and shoulder just before Thanksgiving. Hard to compose when only one hand is available for typing, or when the pain meds make me fall asleep whenever I sit down.

But, even with physical improvements aiding my typing abilities, I haven't had much to say.

That's part of the composition process: down time. The brain needs a break occasionally. There are any number of articles written and speeches given advising writers on how to pound their way through writer's block, but a good old-fashioned mental vacation may be all that's required.

Life gets crazy, the day job requires extra attention, a clumsy writer falls off a wonky step stool and does terrible things to his shoulder: whatever's going on, sometimes something's gotta give. Though we're fed a fairly steady diet of "butt in chair equals pages written," or "real writers never wait for inspiration to strike," where's the "stop trying to write and just let your brain rest" kind of advice? Could be the precise prescription for improved creativity.

So, with an arm that's healing and allowing greater time at the keyboard, and with a few days off from work, I'm hoping the creativity will kick in, languishing stories will liven, and I'll experience the old familiar high of letting words fly.

Hey, a writer can dream.

The Charlatan's Boy - Day 3

2010-12-08T23:09:00.000-06:00

** Once again, a late entry. I do apologize for the tardiness. Life and all that, y'know. **

This is the third and final day of the December CSFF Blog Tour featuring Jonathan Rogers' excellent new novel, The Charlatan's Boy.

This post could be called "About a Boy", but that title is already taken, and there aren't any stutter-prone British actors playing roles opposite a quirky kid who just needs encouragement to participate in the school talent show. (That's about all I recall of the movie by that name, and shall never watch it again.). Therefore, "The Charlatan's Boy - Day 3."

Grady ain't pretty.

I could stop there, because his exterior ugliness is central to the story, but it doesn't begin to tell the truth of the tale.

Here's a kid who wants to know where he came from, who looks into the faces of passing strangers, trying to see if they recognize him as their son. He is used as the main attraction in a huckster's traveling road show -- ahem, con game -- and that fraud, Floyd, is the closest thing to a father Grady has known. Grady's ugliness is only skin deep; Floyd can't see his own ugliness, buried as it is underneath pride and a fairly normal appearance.

Grady wants to be honest. He wants to live a steady life, maybe as a farmer or a villager. He's even given a chance to become so when Short Fronie, the proprietress of a public house, offers to be his sort-of mother since all her children are grown and gone. But, even though Grady knows Floyd isn't good for him, even though he really likes Short Fronie and wants to stay, as soon as Floyd tosses a kind word his way, Grady jumps up and follows him, this time into a new scheme to cheat coins from gullible crowds.

As I read the book, I was reminded of my own childhood spent on the fringes of normal. I was that chubby kid who was rarely picked for a team until the pickings were pretty slim. Agility was not my strength; I lost count of how many times I fell down because ankles simply refused to hold me upright. (I even broke an ankle and never knew it until damaging it again as an adult, and the doctor found the old break. Go figure.) Acceptance was a rare thing. Respect? Only for my mind -- I was "the smart kid" in the class, and the jocks would ask for my help with their homework, but I was never invited to be part of the group. The nerds and the geeks were my crew, and I was a little strange even among them.

A year away from 40, I still recall being on the outside, wondering if I really belonged in this world, always on the lookout for a face that told me I was all right.

Grady does indeed find his origins and where he belongs.

Small spoiler (run cursor over this paragraph to read): Readers who recall a favorite character from the preceding three books (The Wilderking Trilogy) will very likely enjoy knowing that a family member appears at the end of The Charlatan's Boy, someone with the last name of Turtlebane. And that's all I'm gonna say!

I highly recommend this book to young and old alike, and encourage everyone who hasn't done so already to catch the previous books: The Bark of the Bog Owl, The Secret of the Swamp King, and The Way of the Wilderking. Happy Reading!

Meantime, check out other stops on the blog tour by accessing the list here.

The Charlatan's Boy - Day 2

2010-12-07T01:29:00.001-06:00

As mentioned in my post about reaching the end of The Wilderking Trilogy in the weekly Story Time at the Boys & Girls Club where I work, Jonathan Rogers' work is excellent read-out-loud material. And the kids there -- especially middle-grade and junior high listeners -- connected with the stories so much that they acted out the scenes with me, joined the yodeling, and even cried once I read that last sentence of the The Way of the Wilderking.

And I already have plans to make The Charlatan's Boy our next project, which should be good news to the kids who last year really enjoyed meeting all the feechies and civilizers in the original three Corenwald books.

In addition to the rich story and the action, the read-out-loud-ability of the novels comes from the vernacular in which many of the characters speak, reminiscent of the American South, though with some phrases and words that I've encountered nowhere else: civilizer, for instance.

When I read The Charlatan's Boy, I "heard" Uncle Brascal (rhymes with "rascal", and very apt) or Grandpa or Uncle Roger (who wasn't even born in the South) or Uncle Doyle, even Dad, with their Arkansas accents and dry delivery of punchlines, albeit with a twinkle in their eyes, though they were just as apt to laugh before reaching the end of the story. Not gentle laughter, but knee-slapping, foot-stomping, lean forward in the chair, all over the body, tear-crying kind of laughter. So, for me, reading Rogers' work is almost like sitting in the family tall-tale circle on the porch and hearing someone conjure a fable on the spot or embellish a well-known "true" story.

Just as each of the family storytellers had his own style and voice, Rogers imbues his characters with distinctive characteristics: for instance, Short Fronie is warm, snappish, energetic, and caring; Grady is earthy, deep, honest, and a real boy (no relation to Pinocchio); Floyd is flamboyant, creative, dishonest, and abusive.

Rabbit trail: Ever notice how hard con-men and hucksters work in their efforts to make a dishonest living? Intelligent individuals will go out of their way and misuse their minds in order to scalp money from honest folks. It just plain boggles me.

Okay, back to the main path.

Here's an excerpt that has a tall-tale quality:

"You've seen miners. Miners is a heap uglier than farmers. I got a bad feeling, Floyd."

"Well, I don't. Do you know what I see when I look at you?"

"What?"

"The ugliest boy in the world."

"You just saying that."

...When we got to Greasy Cave the next day, Floyd took enough bets to double our stake if we won -- or ruin us if we lost. I give the Greasy Cavers every bit of ugly I had.

It just wasn't enough.

When Floyd let me out of the box, I was face to face with the ugliest boy I ever seen in my life. How can I describe how ugly this boy was? I might as well describe how wet water is.

His ears was like plates glommed onto the sides of his head, and his teeth stuck out in every direction except straight. His nose must have been six inches long, but it curled up at the end like a pig snout. His eyes was two or three different colors, and his eyebrows met up with the hair on his head, which had so many cowlicks that no two hairs pointed in the same direction. On top of that, he was covered in coal dust. It made your eyes water to look at him.

That boy, Melvern, shows up later:

"So what you been doing since I defeated you last year?" Melvern asked. Besides squinting the one eye, now he was sucking his bottom lip back so it looked like he was more bucktoothed than he really was. I'll say this for the boy: he was making the most of his God-given ugliness.

But Grady's physical ugliness is not only a key to his origins but also a misleading face that hides the beauty of the person inside.

More about Grady and his compatriots tomorrow. Meantime, read more reviews of The Charlatan's Boy by visiting the other stops on the blog tour (list found here).

The Charlatan's Boy - Day 1

2010-12-06T21:41:00.004-06:00

** This post is rather late. I usually have these CSFF tour posts ready early in the day, but life had other plans. **

The Charlatan's Boy is Jonathan Rogers' latest novel set in Corenwald, the same island kingdom where The Wilderking Trilogy is set. There is a strange but delightful mix of Europe, ancient Israel, and American Frontier in the trilogy's influences, but this novel has less of an Old World feel and more of the Old West (although the trilogy does have some frontiersman types).

I don't care who you are -- when it comes to knowing where you come from, you got to take somebody else's word for it. That's where things always got ticklish for me. I only know one man who might be able to tell me where I come from, and that man is a liar and a fraud.

So speaks Grady, THE WILD MAN OF THE FEECHIEFEN SWAMP! (according to the words painted on the side of a box by Floyd, the aforementioned charlatan) and later THE UGLIEST BOY IN THE WORLD! (until they met a boy who was even uglier).

Over the next couple of days, I'll discuss the story and its unique vernacular, the depth and honesty of the main character and how he sees his world and the people around him, and the family tall-tale spinners that captured my imagination as a kid.

Meantime, check out these other stops on the CSFF Blog Tour:
Sally Apokedak
Amy Bissell
Red Bissell
Jennifer Bogart
Thomas Clayton Booher
Beckie Burnham
Jeff Chapman
Valerie Comer
CSFF Blog Tour
D. G. D. Davidson
April Erwin
Andrea Graham
Tori Greene
Katie Hart
Bruce Hennigan
Christopher Hopper
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Jason Joyner
Julie
Carol Keen
Shannon McDermott
Allen McGraw
Matt Mikalatos
Rebecca LuElla Miller
Nissa
Donita K. Paul
SarahFlan
Sarah Sawyer
Chawna Schroeder
Tammy Shelnut
Kathleen Smith
James Somers
Donna Swanson
Robert Treskillard
Fred Warren
Phyllis Wheeler
Nicole White
Elizabeth Williams
Dave Wilson

Hallelujah Chorus at the Mall

2010-12-04T10:11:00.000-06:00

I received the following video in an e-mail earlier today, and so am sharing the awesomeness. Merry Christmas!

2010-11-23T23:38:00.000-06:00

A new writing-related post is in the works, but I am currently one-handed due to a strange accident involving a self-folding step stool and a bucket of white paint. I'm practicing writing with my left hand; the results look like a five-year-old's first attempts at penmanship. Or maybe they just look that way due to the pain medication.

Hey, look at the pretty lights! And who's singin-- Zzzzzzzzzzz.

Uhm, Really? Really, People?

2010-11-13T11:11:00.000-06:00

Just saw this commercial on television, so I looked it up online to provide a link for those who may not have been blessed by this bit of, well, you be the judge:

Barack Obama Chia Pet Commercial - The funniest movie is here. Find it

And, no, I am not promoting Mr. Obama or his policies. This blog is generally politics-free, but I couldn't let this earnest piece of spoof-rich material go without comment: Putting Washington and Lincoln in the same context as Obama is an insult to my country. Turning them into Chia Pets is heinous.

The Skin Map - Day 3

2010-11-03T01:02:00.000-05:00

All good things, as they say, must come to an end. Why, I don't know. It's just what "they" say. So, alas, this marks the final day of the CSFF Blog Tour for Stephen R. Lawhead's new novel, The Skin Map, first in the Bright Empires series.

Sometimes, the final day of a tour is for discussing the things I didn't like about a particular book. Well, just doing that would make this a very short post indeed.

The one thing that dampened the reading experience was the mention, by Cosimo, of evolution as if it were fact. This occurred early on in the book, when he was telling Kit about cave lions, the creatures used by the Burley Men. I am one of those Christians who doesn't believe that the theory of evolution can coexist with biblical Christianity. It's not considered intelligent to reject evolutionary theory as valid science, but I'm not interested in other people's opinions of my intelligence, and I might question whether or not they remember some of their basic school science i.e. the laws of thermodynamics, which present obstacles to the theory. (Just a reminder: laws trump theories.)

A literary aside: The word evolution means change, and is generally used to denote change for the better, just as progress is also often used as a positive word, even though progress is really just movement forward along a particular line, whether going in such a direction is good or bad. While writing or reading, we take the word out of its neutral state and assign it positive or negative connotations. That's what I love about language, how symbols (letters) are assigned sounds, how those sounds are strung into words, and how words can express ideas, those speechless things that dwell in our minds. How cool is that?

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

The Skin Map is an enjoyable read, easy to follow, intriguing, humorous, and just downright fun.

My intelligence wasn't insulted by over-explaining; ever read those books where you're talking to the page, "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Move on"? This is not one of those.

Some readers have found the storyline hard to comprehend, because it moves from one time to another and there is more than one set of characters to follow, but that was not a problem for me. The characters may end up in various places in time, but their story is always moving forward. As Kit says early in the book, easy peasy.

As for the issue of messing with history by changing it, well, that is addressed, too, as is the idea of whether or not it's possible for the characters to move forward in time. Although the intellectual side of me is interested in those questions, the little-kid-dreaming-of-adventure side of me doesn't really care. Remember those halcyon days of youth when anything was possible, and the more outlandish the tale, the better you liked it? The Skin Map works, I think, because Lawhead handles the wildly impossible as if it were absolutely possible, and he does it with excellent craft. Readers can trust the storyteller to not only tell a great tale, but tell it well.

I highly recommend this book. For other reviews, click here to access a list of more stops on the tour.

* In conjunction with the CSFF Blog Tour, I received a free copy of this book from the publisher.

The Skin Map - Day 2

2010-11-02T00:18:00.003-05:00

Welcome, welcome, welcome to the otherworldly -- other-dimensionly? -- realm of The Skin Map, first in the Bright Empires series by Stephen R. Lawhead.

This series has the makings of a ripping good yarn. With titles like The Skin Map and The Bone House (just the first two in the series), and then old-fashioned chapter headings, such as "In Which Old Ghosts Meet" and "In Which Dragons Are Not Confined to Statues", Lawhead has created an old-time classic literature feel and welded it to an almost futuristic tale. I'm digging it.

One of the first thoughts that crossed my mind as Kit first joined Cosimo in a new dimension: "Wow. It's like I'm reading the new Treasure Island."

Yup. You read that right. The new Treasure Island.

After all, there's a map -- a tattoed human skin, to boot -- and a treasure hunt of sorts; a young man on a wild and unexpected adventure; a villain able to wear a friendly face (remember how friendly yet how treacherous Long John Silver could be?); exotic settings, even if "exotic" is only in the eye of a bewildered beholder; and then, of course, tall ships and tattoo parlors, though I don't recall any such parlors in Treasure Island, but who cares? It's all in the vibe.

I often skip description because either 1) it bores me, or 2) it's too clunky to read. Not so for The Skin Map. Lawhead writes the descriptive passages well, taking the reader to different times and places with such ease that it's almost as if he's actually been there and is just reporting his travels back to the reader. The story could not exist apart from those details, because the setting and the time periods and the people who inhabit them are integral to the tale. Take this passage, for instance:

Macau sweltered beneath an unforgiving August sun, and the Mirror Sea was calm. The tall ships in Oyster Bay, the few wispy clouds in the sky, the lazily circling seabirds -- all were faithfully replicated in precise detail in their liquid reflections. And none of it evaded the hooded gaze of Wu Chen Hu as he sat on his low stool before the entrance of his small shop on White Lotus Street, above the harbour.

Almost drowsing in his doorway on a hot day, Chen Hu is not just a character inserted into the landscape as a prop. His craftsmanship creates the skin map. That humid, lazy day is important. Something happens to break the stillness.

Earlier in the story -- in Chapter 6, "In Which Kit Acquires an Apostle Spoon" -- three of the main characters share a meal at The Pope's Nose. Kit has never eaten many of the dishes with which he is presented, and some he likes more than others, as Lawhead takes the reader on a gastronomic trip back in time. I confess, as I started that chapter, I had been contemplating what to make for supper; by the time I finished reading it, I'd forgotten about my hunger, and didn't actually get around to eating anything until a few chapters later, when my stomach reminded me there's a difference between imagination and reality.

By the time Kit pushed himself away, his bowl was a slaughterhouse tangle of bones and gristle, and his cheeks, chin, and hands were dripping with grease. He felt as if he might possibly explode from internal pressure, and that, all things considered, this would probably be for the best.

Yeah, we've all been there, some time or another, probably right after a traditional Thanksgiving meal.

Interspersed with the well-written descriptions are historical references that also help ground the reader into whichever time and place a particular scene is set: Oliver Cromwell, for instance, or London's Pudding Lane in 1666. Such details lend reality and concreteness to an otherwise fantastical tale, and they also act as a kind of shorthand, implying much about the setting and providing opportunity to further the story.

And I wasn't bored once!

Click here to access the list of other stops on the tour.

* In conjunction with the CSFF Blog Tour, I received a free copy of this book from the publisher.

The Skin Map - Day 1

2010-11-01T00:01:00.063-05:00

Had he but known that before the day was over he would discover the dimensions of the universe, Kit might have been better prepared. At least, he would have brought an umbrella.

An excellent beginning -- intriguing and humorous -- and the opening lines of Stephen R. Lawhead's The Skin Map. As for the dimensions of the universe, well, that's the story. And, as it turns out, there's more than one.

While rushing to meet his girlfriend but encountering obstacles at (literally) every turn, Kit -- or, Cosimo Christopher Livingstone, to be more precise -- is forced to abandon motorized forms of travel and use his feet instead. In the rain.

The storm begins after he enters an old street in modern London. The street goes on and on, and he is already late, so Kit turns back. It is then that he meets a man who should be dead -- well over one hundred years ago.

And then there is, of course, the one thing the Questors and their adversaries, the Burley Men, are trying to find, if only they can piece it together: a map of all the ley lines, the places where dimensions touch, tattooed on human skin.

The Skin Map draws the reader in with excellent writing, an intriguing premise, gentle and intelligent humor, historical references, appealing characters, detailed settings, and an interesting yarn. And did I mention excellent writing?

Over the remaining two days of the CSFF Blog Tour, I'll discuss other aspects of the novel, the first in Lawhead's new series, Bright Empires. Meantime, check out other stops on the tour:
Red Bissell
Thomas Clayton Booher
Grace Bridges
Beckie Burnham
Morgan L. Busse
Jeff Chapman
Christian Fiction Book Reviews
Valerie Comer
Karri Compton
Amy Cruson
CSFF Blog Tour
Stacey Dale
D. G. D. Davidson
George Duncan
April Erwin
Tori Greene
Ryan Heart
Bruce Hennigan
Timothy Hicks
Christopher Hopper
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Becca Johnson
Jason Joyner
Julie
Carol Keen
Krystine Kercher
Shannon McDermott
Allen McGraw
Matt Mikalatos
Rebecca LuElla Miller
Nissa
John W. Otte
Gavin Patchett
Sarah Sawyer
Chawna Schroeder
Kathleen Smith
Rachel Starr Thomson
Donna Swanson
Robert Treskillard
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Dona Watson
Phyllis Wheeler
Nicole White
Elizabeth Williams
Dave Wilson

Carpe Diem Before It's the Last

2010-10-17T02:23:00.002-05:00

I'm not an 8-5, live in the office, punch a time clock type of person.

I can work -- I'm not allergic to it -- but I just don't like to do it according to someone else's schedule.

Yes, I understand the necessity of clocks and calendars and deadlines. But I don't function at my best when my life is governed by them.

Guess I'm like my dad in that way. (Yes, Mother, I said it.) He hates answering to a boss, though, and I don't have a problem with having a boss, as long as I'm not being micro-managed. Give me a task, tell me what the end result needs to be, and give me a deadline. Then leave me alone.

As foolish as this might seem, especially in the current economy, I'm considering asking the executive director if I can work part-time out of my home office, and only report to the Club(s) when it's time to conduct programs for the kids. I've worked a lot of other places, and I've learned how I function best. All the good ideas don't come on a schedule -- I can be working out games or educational activities while I'm driving my truck or mowing the lawn -- and I can be most alert and creative at midnight.

Meantime, there's writing to be done, photographs to be taken, life to be lived. Dreams to be captured.

While still making those tortoise-paced updates to my house so I can sell it, I know I'm kinda stuck with this job. But I keep hearing lately some variation of this:

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.

~Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Wow. What if this is the last day? What have I accomplished?

Thirteen years. It's time for a change.

When Hairy Met Daisy

2010-10-12T02:08:00.001-05:00

I meant to post this about a month ago, but kept forgetting -- must be the horticultural romance in the air.

On Labor Day this year, Mom and I celebrated her birthday a few days early by heading to Mount Magazine here in Arkansas. I was in the middle of the crud a/k/a "walking pneumonia", but I was tired of staying in the house, and the weather was perfect, so I packed up some lunch, charged the camera battery, and was ready to go at the appointed time.

At the nature center, we wandered the room, enjoyed the nice view, and read about the various trees and plants that grow on the mountain. And, as is our wont, we saw things in a sideways fashion, making goofy comments but stifling our laughter due to the rest of the crowd present who might not appreciate our absurdity.

So, as we're lifting the little wood and Plexiglass doors and reading the plant trivia written below, this is what I find:

Eastern Daisy Fleabane

daisy fleabane (Erigeron annuus) -- "grows in areas heavily disturbed by man"

Hairy Hawkweed

hairy hawkweed (Hieracium gronovii) -- "fares well in poor, infertile soil...wild turkeys eat its fruit"

Poor Harry. He gets no love, and what he does have is stolen. As for Daisy, unfortunate girl, she's always being bothered by those disturbed men.

Yeah, it's lame, but when I said, "Hairy, meet Daisy. Daisy, meet Harry," Mom laughed, I snorted, and we beat a quick exit.

Out on the rear balcony, overlooking a pond where some frogs were sitting around the edges, there were more laughs and insane commentary -- I can't recall exactly what we said, but there was the expected twisted remark or two about frogs kissing princesses, and I laughed so much that I almost coughed up a lung (which, if I did, might have sped my recovery).

Then Mom became a bit serious. "I knew we'd have a good time."

And we did.

2010-10-09T22:46:00.000-05:00

Attention, boys and girls and horror fanatics: Fear and Trembling is back in "bidness" and looking better than ever.

If you like horror with a spiritual twist (no pun intended), then F&T is the magazine. Stop on by and give it a try!

Kenning

2010-10-02T00:52:00.002-05:00

In a recent blog post concerning some names in the new young adult fantasy novel, Venom and Song, I mentioned an ancient literary device: kenning, an Old Norse and Anglo-Saxon technique whereby an image was created to replace a single word (noun), and could range from the rather simple two-word hyphenate to a more complex phrase.

Toadeater, brown-noser, bloodsucker, babe magnet, man-eater, ankle-biter -- politically correct or not, those are all kennings, because they use two words (both nouns) to describe one word (also a noun):

toadeater = toady, sycophant
brown-noser = flatterer (one who ingratiates)
bloodsucker = leech, parasite (one who sponges or preys on another)
babe magnet = car (or anything that is deemed by men to be appealing to women)
man-eater = cannibal, predator, woman (specifically, a woman who preys on men for money or advantage, etc.)
ankle-biter = toddler

That list makes it seem as if all kennings are negative; they are not. So, then, what are some of those ancient kennings that make reading old literature so much fun? You may find a short list on Wikipedia, which includes different forms of kenning. You can also read the poetry and stories, such as Beowulf, the most obvious, or go exploring in modern translations of old Scandinavian and English literature.

Here are examples of kenning from three Anglo-Saxon pieces:

Beowulf (trans. Charles W. Kennedy)
swan-road = water, sea
war-net = mail (armor)
Victor-Scyldings = Danes (perhaps not a true kenning, but cool nonetheless)
Sea-Geat = Beowulf
the shepherd of sins = Grendel
hell-thane = Grendel (at this time, a thane was similar to the later rank of baron)
monster-brood = Grendel's mother
heather-stepper = deer
sea-troll = Grendel's mother

"The Wanderer" (poetic lament from the Exeter Book; trans. Charles W. Kennedy)
gold-lord = king, protector, leader
hallmen = warriors (or companions) who serve the same lord
the Warden of men = God

"The Seafarer" (poetic dialogue from the Exeter Book; trans. LaMotte Iddings)
sea-eagle = gull? (I'm guessing here)
ice-chains = cold, numbness (again, I'm guessing based on the context)
pathway of tides = sea
home of the whale = sea
whale-path = sea
gold-givers = lords, kings

This week, I attempted an activity with the kids in the Creative Writing Club, but their young minds had a difficult time wrapping around the concept of kenning, and I didn't quite know how to teach it. However, here are a few instances when they "got it" -- and the results are pretty good:

bully-defeater = fighter
numbers-enjoyer = student (specifically, a good math student)
crayon-wielder = artist, colorer
joy-bringer = daughter
brain-stretcher = teacher
carp-catcher = fisherman

So, what about you? Think you "ken" do it?

(Ignore my mad laughter -- and I offer no apologies for the bad pun.)

Venom and Song - Day 3

2010-09-29T00:01:00.115-05:00

This is the third and final day of the CSFF Blog Tour for September. The featured novel is a joint venture of Wayne Thomas Batson and Christopher Hopper: Venom and Song, second book of The Berinfell Prophecies and sequel to Curse of the Spider King.

Beside me is a lined piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook and covered in pencil-scribbled notes, stars and exes and arrows, crossed-out deletions and crammed-in additions, ideas and thoughts for discussion during the tour. I could talk about themes or story structure or similarities between our real-world history and that of Allyra, but my brain's just not leaning in any of those directions.

(It is, however, enjoying the DVD of The Fellowship of the Ring Extended Edition, which I haven't watched in a good long while.)

Lately, I've stumbled across or been engaged in conversations about "Christian fiction": Although it is categorized by genre, how can fiction be anything but fiction? Is "Christian fiction" considered "Christian" because of its content, or because of its author? What about fiction written by Christian authors and/or with Christian themes or worldview, but published and marketed in a secular venue?

It's old news, but Christian fiction has a reputation (and, in many cases, deservedly so) for preachiness; predictability or a tendency toward the formulaic; shallow thought or forced emotion (characters not being allowed to think, emote, or react as real people might); and poor craft.

As another writer said recently, the Bible was the only book written at God's direction. The rest of us? We have to work at it.

A writerly aside: I'd forgotten that Chawna Schroeder (one of our CSFF Blog Tour participants) had also discussed this topic on her blog recently -- and I'd even left a ranting comment, how's that for memory? She has some good stuff to say, so do go check it out. And please disregard my apparent loss of spelling ability in the comment!

It's an arrogant and lazy writer who thinks his or her words are perfect from the moment of inception.

Our work should be excellent -- not just so it can be "as good as" or "better than" the work of secular authors, but because our excellence honors God. We should spur one another toward excellence, toward a bettering of our craft. In this, there is no separation of the sacred and the profane -- in the sense that the story is the sacred, and the craft is the profane -- because good craft helps us tell a better story. And good craft gives us credibility. Who cares what your message is if you're not communicating it in such a way that it will be received?

And that's another debate: In Christian fiction, which comes first -- the message or the story? I say story, because who picks up a novel expecting to read a sermon? Let any "message" be organic, a natural part of the story. Let characters be as real as possible. Let the outcome of events turn as they may. Let there be surprises and ugliness and sin and doubt and mistakes. Don't try to force everything to fit a preplanned message.

The purpose of the Christian Science Fiction & Fantasy Blog Tour is to promote speculative works by Christian authors, and Venom and Song is certainly that. In it, the Elves -- "the good guys" -- have a dark secret in their history, and it has a direct effect on everything that happens in the story's present.

Who among us hasn't made a mistake that changed life from that moment onward? How many of us are always selfless? Always good? Always acting for the good of others? The Elves aren't ethereal creatures of unalloyed goodness. They possess conflicting opinions, they don't have all the answers, they don't do everything right. The teenage Lords of Berinfell are learning as they go. In imperfection is room for change, for growth, essential to effective characters and, therefore, effective stories.

And mistakes leave room for redemption.

For other stops on the tour, please visit Monday's post, scroll to the end, and click on any of the names in the list there.

In conjunction with the CSSF Blog Tour, I received a free copy of this book from the publisher.

Venom and Song - Day 2

2010-09-28T00:30:00.000-05:00

On this second day of the CSFF Blog Tour, we return to the second novel in The Berinfell Prophecies by Wayne Thomas Batson and Christopher Hopper: Venom and Song.

Okay, a few allusions or similarities that hit me while reading the book:

1) the use of the word "flet" (used also by Tolkien in The Lord of the Rings to describe the platforms the Elves built high in the trees); 2) "not all tears are evil" (a near-quote of the farewell spoken at the end of The Return of the King, when Gandalf, Bilbo, and Frodo sail away with the Elves); 3) children who are royalty in another world than our own (the Pevensies in The Chronicles of Narnia); 4) names of characters or places that are reminiscent of other stories (Elrain Galadhon, for instance, whose name is an allusion to Caras Galadhon, an elven city in The Lord of the Rings); 5) special training conducted by special teachers for students with special powers (though the obvious modern example is Hogwarts and Harry Potter, there is A Wizard of Earthsea, Wizard's Hall, X-Men, and many, many others, though Venom and Song has a different focus than the control of magic).Hey, there's nothing wrong with paying homage to the great writers who've come before us. I've done it -- am doing it -- in a couple of projects. An homage is not theft nor is it basically re-writing someone else's work in one's own words; it's a nod, the acknowledgment of a fan or a student. Those of us writing new fantasy and science fiction owe much to Tolkien, Lewis, LeGuin, Yolen, and others. For some of us, it's as natural as breathing to tip the hat in our writing. (Pardon the cliches.)But back to Venom and Song--There is some cool originality here, such as the "frakes", Kat's name for the furry, purring, pink-nosed snakes found in Allyra; and there's the training session in which the only way the seven teenage Lords of Berinfell could navigate a dark chamber was by following a restricting set of instructions and relying on each other.Not original and yet always and forever cool: names created by kenning, the Old Norse and Old English tradition of putting together two words to create an image for a single word. For instance, a class of Elven soldiers in the story are the Dreadnoughts; dreadnought means "fear nothing", and is a class of ship, as well as the term for a thick, warm garment. Perhaps not necessarily true kenning (we don't know what the names are meant to represent), the Lords of Berinfell have some groovy tribal names: Hiddenblade, Swiftstorm, Ashheart, Valorbrand, Nightwing, Oakenflower, Silvertree. And then there's Grimwarden and Goldarrow, their teachers. What's not to like?But what about the story itself?
Weeeellll, though there were a couple pretty good parts in the first third of the book -- the river ride through the caves, the lordship ceremony, some of the training -- I didn't really get interested until Chapter 15, "The Scarlet Raptor", when a giant bird of prey summons Tommy and Kat to an unexplored region of Whitehall Castle, takes them on an unexpected journey, and a major secret is revealed.To be honest, I skipped entire pages in the first fourteen chapters (and even in a places later in the book) and picked up the action later. It didn't really keep my attention at first, and was often an effort to read -- not because nothing was going on in the story, but because I just didn't care. Though I knew Kat was blue, and there was mention of one of the boys having a temper problem and that Tommy liked puzzles, aside from the fact that each of the Lords had a different gift, there were no real telling details to help differentiate among the characters, and the teenagers all seemed to have similar personalities. Of course, that might have been deliberate on the part of the authors, since themes include teamwork and reliance on one another. (But I've read a blog or two on the tour that mentioned how different each character is, and how easy it is to tell them apart.)As I mentioned in yesterday's post, my experience might have been different if I'd read the first book, or if I weren't such a curmudgeon. When a writer is coordinating a large cast of characters, sometimes it becomes unwieldy, and in trying to mention everyone, the writer can actually spread the reader's attention too thin. Given too much information, the audience can shut down -- I did. As a result, the tension/suspense can bleed away, leaving scenes flat and uninteresting. In Chapter 15, though, the story narrowed, intriguing events unfolded, and my attention increased.But this book wasn't written for middle-aged folks like me. I work with kids and teenagers who are always on the prowl for good reads, and this series will be on my "Recommended" list, especially when the annual reading contest starts again in January. I've already talked up the series and promised a group of teenagers that this book will be in a drawing to be held in a couple of weeks, and they are all excited. (Free book! And it's a fantasy! How can there not be confetti and stuff?)For other stops on the tour, visit yesterday's post, scroll to the end, and click on any of the names in the list there.

(FYI: Amazon doesn't offer any sample chapters of Hopper's solo work -- The Rise of the Dibor, The Lion Vrie -- but Batson's work can be sampled.) In conjunction with the CSSF Blog Tour, I received a free copy of this book from the publisher.

Venom and Song - Day 1

2010-09-27T00:01:00.152-05:00

This month's CSFF blog tour entry is Venom and Song, the second in The Berinfell Prophecies, a young adult fantasy series by Wayne Thomas Batson and Christopher Hopper.

Following immediately on the heels of events in Curse of the Spider King, this novel dives right into the action. I haven't read the first book; and, while common thought might be that I would do so before reading the sequel, it was important to this review that I see how well a new reader could pick up the characters and the gist of the story.

A writerly aside: What's the point of a story if the readers can't follow the action? One test of good storytelling is how easily the audience can understand what it's being told. Artistic abstruseness is just pretentious, and is more than likely the high-sounding veneer of a lazy writer.

Now, back to our main programming.

Despite the almost too-hectic and sometimes protracted action -- more is not necessarily more -- and the overwhelming number of characters, the opening scenes of Venom and Song weren't difficult to follow. I liked the idea of the amusement-park-ride-on-steroids that was "the good guys'" journey via an underground river.

As for all the characters, an ensemble cast can keep a story tense and active, make it confusing, or bleed away the intrigue because readers don't know who to root for or don't care about what happens to the main characters. It's a tough task for authors to not only clearly differentiate between characters, but also keep them interesting. Though I didn't really care about this novel's characters at the beginning -- that's probably just the curmudgeon in me -- there's an automatic connection for the target audience: since the seven Lords of Berinfell are teenagers, readers from middle grades through high school will probably have immediate sympathy for the characters and be interested in how their story plays out over the course of the series.

There is violence and some frightening incidents, but there is also friendship and courage, and learning how to live and move forward in unexpected and less-than-ideal circumstances, ones that the characters did not choose. I would certainly let my 12-year-old niece read this book.

Other stops on the tour:
Angela
Brandon Barr
Amy Browning
Beckie Burnham
Morgan L. Busse
Melissa Carswell
Jeff Chapman
Valerie Comer
Amy Cruson
CSFF Blog Tour
D. G. D. Davidson
April Erwin
Tori Greene
Ryan Heart
Bruce Hennigan
Timothy Hicks
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Jason Joyner
Julie
Carol Keen
Krystine Kercher
Dawn King
Leighton
Rebecca LuElla Miller
John W. Otte
Donita K. Paul
Sarah Sawyer
Chawna Schroeder
Tammy Shelnut
James Somers
Kathleen Smith
Rachel Starr Thomson
Robert Treskillard
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Jason Waguespac
Dona Watson
Phyllis Wheeler
Jill Williamson

In conjunction with the CSSF Blog Tour, I received a free copy of this book from the publisher.

More Randomness

2010-09-22T12:04:00.000-05:00

If you've read the previous post, you'll know the leaps my mostly-asleep brain can make.

This morning, after having fallen asleep (again) on the living room couch, I was jolted by an obnoxious beeping.

Too clear and close to be a car alarm, too rapid to be the phone ringing, it was annoying enough to jar me to semi-consciousness, but no further.

I must have fallen asleep again, because the shrill noise invaded my dream -- which I cannot recall -- until I woke again.

Why. Wouldn't. It. Just. STOP!

"Well," I told myself, "if you'd stop taking pictures--"

Ah. That's when it clicked.

Not the pleasant sliding snick of a camera shutter, but the shrieking beep of the alarm clock.

Someday, I will write a surreal horror story about the assault of a sleeping person by his misunderstood and increasingly belligerent electronics.

Totally Random

2010-09-17T13:15:00.000-05:00

This morning, in the early hours, a strident sound brought me to the brink of quasi-consciousness, close enough that instinct took over, and my hand reached up to slap the alarm clock.

Silence.

Then the sound an instant later.

My hand, of its own volition, slaps the clock again.

A mere second of silence, then RING!

Again, slap clock, get silence.

RING!

By this time, my foggy brain realizes the phone is ringing.

I do not rise from my comfy bed to answer the blasted contraption. No, what pops into my head is a totally random thought: "It's a barbecue apocalypse!"

The answering machine kicks on, I hear my tinny recorded voice echoing down the hallway, and I roll over and go back to sleep.

So much for the apocalypse.

Coming of Age and Moving On

2010-09-11T20:42:00.000-05:00

Way back, when I was a young writer, I crafted stories in which I wrote about only people I liked who faced down one-dimensional villains, and only included events I wanted to happen, whether or not they fit the story or made for interesting reads. I could write for hours, only "the good parts" kind of stuff, and scorned the notion of writer's block. After all, imagination was not a quantity that could be measured, contained, or lost. It just was. All I needed was pencil and paper.

Ah, the heady days of youth.

And then the critiques came, and the advice, and I retreated. I went from being a wunderkind to being (shock, gasp) just like everybody else.

Instead of being a published novelist by age 16 -- as predicted by at least one English teacher and a crowd of fellow students -- I wandered in the wilderness for almost two decades, writing a smattering of this and a soupcon of that, until I figured that writing fiction was really just a juvenile pursuit that must be put away in favor of more grownup activities, like a career and a succession of (failed) relationships.

Only when my then-boss, and later friend, figuratively shoved me out the door one workday and told me to attend a free one-day writing seminar at the local college did I start to realize that a writer is who I am. Fiction wasn't just a phase, but a way for me to connect with the truth.

When I went through a rough time so dark that suicide seemed like light, writing saved my life.

It helped me sort my thoughts when my parents divorced after thirty years of marriage.

It has been with me through health difficulties that changed how I approach life.

Writing challenged my faith then strengthened it.

So, when I read the Overlords' essays in the last DEP-sponsored issue of Ray Gun Revival, I read the hearts of people I have never met and yet I know, because we walk the same road. (When you read their essays, you'll know what I mean.)

This is an excellent magazine well-done by editors who love the genre, and it shows.

Just because this is the final issue in the current format doesn't mean the quality is at all diminished. There's awesome artwork, as always -- this issue's featured artist is Carl Andrée Wallin, who just happens to be from Sweden, the country of origin for my mother's side of the family.

And then there is a handful of short stories and a couple serials. Sadly, M. Keaton's entertaining Calamity's Child ends with this issue; Thieves' Honor, my series, will continue on with Episode 13 in the new incarnation of RGR.

Aforementioned episode is still being written. I promise to include heroes who actually have to overcome obstacles, and villains with several dimensions, but I'll still strive to write only the good parts.

Discipline? Can You Give Me Context? Maybe Use It in a Sentence?

2010-09-04T11:56:00.001-05:00

As a writer, I have no discipline.

That could mean many things:
1) I don't have a specialty.
2) I can't control my hands while typppppppping.
3) I write all over the place, and prefer markers on freshly-painted walls.
4) Uniquely constructed sentences I make.
5) 5:00 in the morning is meant for sleeping, not writing. (Unless, of course, one is on a creative spree, and has not yet been to bed.)
6) Focusing on only one project at a time is imposs- Squirrel! (Squirrel Removal in 12 Easy Steps -- HI-larious!)
7) I give great writing advice but rarely follow it. (Write to the end then edit.)
8) I find all sorts of activities that keep me from writing, when writing is all I really want to do.
9) An outline is not the Ten Commandments, and is a lot of hard work for something I'm just going to ignore anyway.
10) Planting butt in chair and creating is not something I generally do on command. In fact, there are very few things I do on command, and even then I might pause to think about it.

And the list goes on, but I'll end it there. (End not to be confused with aforementioned butt.)

Yesterday, I sat on the couch, felt-tip pen and scrap paper in hand, stared into space while a DVD miniseries adaptation of a Charles Dickens novel played in the background, and wrote a couple good pages of material. All rough, of course, but solid.

As I wrote, I thought it was brilliant.

Then, some time later, long after the pen had been capped and I was no longer under the heady influence of Sharpie fumes, I read it again.

Meh. As I said, rough but solid. I can work with that.

As for discipline, well, that's a concept that looks different to each writer. What really matters is the outcome: What is produced? Regardless of a writer's method -- laptop in the park, legal pad in the coffee shop, scrap paper on the couch -- words must be written. Stories must be told.

Bring on the Sharpie!

And Now for a Laugh

2010-08-28T13:20:00.000-05:00

Alrighty, this has nothing to do with adventures in fiction nor with living the writer's life, but it's a lot of fun:

Favorites - Day 3

2010-08-25T21:38:00.001-05:00

This month's CSFF blog tour has caught me at a time when my posts are at the end of the day rather than the beginning -- not the best circumstance, but that's life, eh?

The focus for August isn't a particular novel but the various bloggers' favorite science fiction or fantasy novels written by Christian authors or with a Christian worldview or theme.

My new favorite science fiction novel, Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, doesn't necessarily fall into the "Christian fiction" category, but it was my first choice when casting about for an SF title. However, there's another I like, the second in a series (I still haven't gone back and caught the first title): The Personifid Invasion by R.E. Bartlett, part of the CSFF tour back in September 2008. The tour feature that month was not a particular book, either, but Marcher Lord Press, and The Personifid Invasion was one of the first three books published.

I didn't expect to like the novel, but it grabbed me despite my reluctance and the fact that I had to read it entirely onscreen (I'm still a fan of the old fashioned ink-and-paper books); the original review can be read here. And there's a paperback for those readers who, like me, prefer non-electronic books. So, I didn't catch the first part of the story -- The Personifid Project -- but the sequel is easy to follow.

Maybe in a couple more years or so, when the story's faded further back into memory, I might start from the beginning. It's a "thing", and it's the reason I have so many books: Even the classics are fresh when they've spent fallow time on the shelf, waiting to be read yet again.

For other favorites on the tour, check out the links here. You might find some overlap in our lists, but there are some unexpected or forgotten books in the spotlight, as well, and I've already added a few to my "Must Buy" list. Enjoy the tour!

Favorites - Day 2

2010-08-24T21:40:00.001-05:00

It's reader's choice this month on the CSFF blog tour, and it's a bit of a challenge, trying to come up with just a few favorites and not a long list.

Thanks to the tour, I've encountered many excellent new science fiction and fantasy titles; for me, the standout titles are Blaggard's Moon by Bryan Polivka (awesome yarn!), The Enclave by Karen Hancock, Imaginary Jesus by Matt Mikalatos, Lost Mission by Athol Dickson, and Vanish by Tom Pawlik. There are also a lot of books I've missed on the tour over the past couple of years, so there's a lot of catch-up reading to be done. Aw, shucks, darn: I have to read. (That's kinda like a kid secretly pleased to be banished to his room, so he can dive under the bed and dig into the boxes of comic books stored there.)

In the 1980s and 1990s, I didn't encounter a Frank Peretti novel I didn't like. Oh, I might avoid one for a bit -- The Oath, for instance, or The Visitation -- but if it was in my sphere, I read it. This Present Darkness and Piercing the Darkness had a profound impact on me, and I read them several times -- devoured them, actually. But The Oath and The Visitation were too close, too much like my own life, so that the line between fantasy and reality stopped existing. An argument might be made that those books aren't really fantasy, but they are most certainly speculative fiction. The Oath challenges misconceptions of sin and consequences, and The Visitation evaporates "Christian" illusions and false miracles.

Shortly after reading that book, someone loaned me a nonfiction volume by Peretti: The Wounded Spirit. Coming right behind The Visitation, it reinforced the truths found there, and literally changed my life. I was not alone. Someone else, a fellow believer, had experienced circumstances uncannily like mine, and his faith had survived.

Some among the church looked askance at my reading material, and many of the elders did not believe fiction (lies) had any place in a good young Christian's library. And the crazy stuff I enjoyed reading actually inspired warnings and lectures. I smile now to imagine what some of those same people might say of my writing!

Yet it is this "questionable" fiction that led me toward Truth, and stoked the fires of imagination.

A list of the other stops on the blog tour can be found here; check out what other bloggers are saying about their favorite Christian science fiction and fantasy novels!

Favorites - Day 1

2010-08-23T21:12:00.003-05:00

This month's Christian Science Fiction & Fantasy blog tour features not one book but many: participants choose their favorite books, new or old, classics or almost unknown, and discuss them as they will. Not sure what I'm gonna talk about -- I'm just gonna sit down at the computer and let fly with whatever comes to mind. After all, most of my favorites are rooted in classic literature: The Chronicles of Narnia, for instance, or Pilgrim's Progress -- which, now that I think about it, is probably my very first introduction to Christian fiction. Sure, there were stories in Sunday School or in anthologies, but Pilgrim's Progress was a totally different animal than the "Dick and Jane" types of stories I encountered as a young'un.

As soon as I learned to read, I read everything, including stuff that was beyond my comprehension. I could read the words, follow the sentences, but couldn't always understand the meaning of the material. That's not necessarily a bad thing, though. It caused me to stretch my young mind, to ask questions, to learn the basic research tools of looking up the hard words in the dictionary or interviewing my elders who knew more than I did.

Pilgrim's Progress, more allegory than fantasy, was easy to understand, and I could draw direct parallels with reality. The Chronicles of Narnia was not so tidy, and I could not always see Truth in the fantasy, being so caught in the story that I didn't step back to try to gain any wisdom or knowledge from the material. But that's the beauty of story, isn't it?

A story can do what a parent or a preacher or a mentor cannot: it can engage our minds and emotions in such a way that truth has a chance of being introduced, whereas we might not give much credence to what other people say, or we might be too distracted to really hear them. A story has the ability to reach us when a lecture avails nothing.

Not that a story's main job is to teach, preach, or discipline. Stories can be oral histories. They can be entertainment. They can be introductions to new worlds and ideas, reminders of old worlds and foundational ideas, glimpses into other cultures, wild rides in the unbounded imaginations of creative authors. Stories have the power to change, heal, inspire. They have, as a collective force, drawn me toward the Wonderland of storytelling. Over the course of the next two days, I hope to talk about other favorite books that have shaped my life.

Meantime, visit these stops on the blog tour, and check out the favorite tales of other writers and readers:
Brandon Barr
Thomas Clayton Booher
Keanan Brand
Grace Bridges
Beckie Burnham
Morgan L. Busse
Jeff Chapman
CSFF Blog Tour
Stacey Dale
D. G. D. Davidson
Jeff Draper
George Duncan
April Erwin
Andrea Graham
Tori Greene
Ryan Heart
Timothy Hicks
Becky Jesse
Jason Joyner
Julie
Carol Keen
Krystine Kercher
Mike Lynch
Rebecca LuElla Miller
New Authors Fellowship
John W. Otte
Donita K. Paul
Chawna Schroeder
James Somers
Speculative Faith
Rachel Starr Thomson
Steve Trower
Jason Waguespac
Fred Warren
Dona Watson
Phyllis Wheeler
KM Wilsher

Animal Planet(s)

2010-08-21T06:31:00.000-05:00

I'm not a cat person. The neighborhood strays who like lounging on my porch or stretching out for a snooze on the cab of my truck haven't seemed to figure that out. Or perhaps they have, and are just tweaking me by perversely continuing to treat my property as their own.

I admit, it's kinda funny to watch two indolent adolescent cats suddenly give each other a wide-eyed look then leap up and launch themselves across the yard in a crazy cat version of tag. If the old, long-deceased, and otherwise mild-mannered family dog were still here, he'd join the chase, and the world would very likely be short two stray cats.

Rocky: best dog ever.

I'm considering the fact that there are almost no animals in my science fiction universe. There are colonies of humans who have attempted to bring vegetation to arid planets, but only in one small wilderness town have there been animals, specifically dogs. There's one planet I've mentioned that is half-covered in jungle. What if there are others where the introduction of grass and other agricultural products has been successful? Then there could be a "real" Western episode (or many such episodes) set in cattle country.

In the fantasy cycle, horses are special to some of the characters, who talk to them and care for them much as they might pet dogs. Kraekor is one such horse, whose affection for apples has made him rather a connoisseur: he'll turn up his nose -- literally -- at the lesser varieties but follow around anyone who might have a particularly tasty variety in pocket or in hand. Beware the hand.

Kraekor also will come up beside his master and rest his "chin" on the man's shoulder, or approach from the front, bend down, and bump his entire head against the man's chest. Or Captain Gaerbith will drape an arm around Kraekor's neck, and the two of them will just stand side-by-side while the man talks about whatever's on his mind.

Ever do that with an animal? Talk as if they understood exactly what you said? I used to do that with Rocky, and later with Paco, a German Shepherd whose affection could break bones. Even his tail, when wagged, could leave bruises. When he stood on his hind legs as he leaped up to greet me, Paco was taller than I and with better reach and a wicked left hook. Good thing he loved me. Despite that, I was fortunate to avoid the clinic.

So, there should be animals in the colonies. Maybe someone brings a stray dog aboard the Martina Vega. That might make for some interesting antics. I imagine one or two of the gruffer characters might make a big show of hating all animals, that scruffy dog in particular, but then be caught secretly feeding the animal, or scratching its head and speaking to it in a bunch of baby-talk nonsense. Or speaking in a loving tone while calling it all sorts of vile names. This is an idea worth pursuing.

Stay tuned!

Computer Complaints

2010-08-19T23:59:00.001-05:00

The desktop computer is undergoing a slow but inexorable transformation as lines of pixelation gather on one side of the screen. The laptop did a nosedive out of the truck on Tuesday, and has had a twitch ever since.

As a writer in this modern age, I am still adept at using pencil and paper. However, online college courses begin next Wednesday, and there's no money in the checkbook for equipment repair or replacement.

Just when I'm riding the wave of positive change, the tow grabs the board from under me.

Ain't that just like life?

Fiction (and Fictionalized Nonfiction) on Film: a Brief Review

2010-08-07T20:06:00.004-05:00

The following are DVDs I've rented during vacation in an attempt to kick-start some creativity. Some movies I liked more than others, despite being told what I should like and what I should regard with a critic's disdain. Which is which, I shall not say. Read on for my honest -- and very brief -- opinion.

The Men Who Stare at Goats: loaded with great actors, funny, bizarre, hard to believe stuff like this really happened but truth is stranger, as they say. Despite the profanity, I highly recommend this flick. (Based on the nonfiction book by the same name, author Jon Ronson.)

The Informant!: again, good actors and some humor, but I knew early on there was something fishy. Still, it didn't take away from the almost giddy behavior of the main character as he narrates his walk through the office, all for the benefit of a concealed recorder. I liked it, but probably wouldn't watch it again. (Based on the nonfiction book, The Informant by Kurt Eichenwald.)

Kick-Ass: smart, funny, action-packed. The acting is excellent, the story is unexpected, and I totally identified with the desire to be a superhero and right the wrongs of the world. I really wanted to like this film. However, it was the third film in a row I'd watched that was heavy with profanity, the bloodletting was almost gleeful to the point of disturbing, and the teen sexuality -- though it does go on, as we are well aware -- seemed out of place. Still, one does laugh at Mark Strong's villain casually ordering movie popcorn and Twizzlers after doing his villain-y things. (Based on the graphic novel by Mark Millar and John Romita, Jr.)

The Losers: the fourth rental, yet another based on a graphic novel, and the most enjoyable of the bunch. Great lines, just the right mix of action and humor, with violence that mostly happens off-screen; the explosion of a particular helicopter is a disturbing but necessary part of the plot, and sets the rest of the story into motion. This movie is in the running to become part of my library.

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, the last of the stack, is interesting to look at, has a different slant to its humor, but just didn't keep my attention. In truth, I didn't even finish watching it. I get that it's supposed to be a struggle between good and evil, God and the devil, Doctor Parnassus and Mr. Nick. Paintings of Christ are used as Hinduised/Bhuddaised portraits of Doctor Parnassus in his youth. Perhaps they're meant to be clever, hip, allegorical. Whatever. There's allegory and fantasy here, but it is disjointed, cluttered, occasionally funny. Other folks have said it's had a profound affect on them. Maybe it would have done the same for me. If I'd stayed awake.

Something in a similar vein -- that being the absurd, humorous, and sideways -- is the SyFy mini-series "Alice", a twisted and upside-down version of Alice in Wonderland, and one which I found more enjoyable than Imaginarium, despite flaws. Oddly enough, as of this date, the IMDb scores for the two films are almost identical: the miniseries at 7.0 out of 10, and the movie at 7.1.

I Need a Vacation from My Vacation

2010-08-04T18:50:00.000-05:00

Science fiction writers, I am sorry to say, really do not know anything. We can't talk about science, because our knowledge of it is limited and unofficial, and usually our fiction is dreadful.

- Philip K. Dick

That's me. A science fiction writer whose knowledge is limited, and what little there is was gained from elementary school textbooks when I was a student or from haphazard research now that I'm an adult. And, yes, the writing is often dreadful, but my brother assures me the Cheese-O-Meter hasn't pegged out yet.

Five days into vacation, and I've spent far more time doing other tasks than writing. House painting is slow work in this heat; I've been getting up in "the wee hours" and working until the temperature becomes too much. Every time I sit down to write, I want to fall asleep instead. Three in the afternoon feels like the end of the day.

Episode 13 of Thieves' Honor is underway, and I'm hoping to dive into the reason for the rebels' existence, maybe bring up the humor level again, alleviate the darkness. (Ray Gun Revival still has one more issue in its current format, and Episode 12 will appear in that publication.)

The as-yet-untitled supernatural novel needs to be finished, and soon, but I'm nowhere near the halfway mark. All I've written on it this week is a few sentences in this non-spoiler paragraph:

This was his first visit to the haven in three years, and only the fourth since she left. Each time, he never took a direct route, and spent more time looking in the rearview mirror for tails than he did admiring the view, but he'd been there for a couple days now, and looked as sweat-stained and dust-covered as any ranch hand. Haven? Absolutely. Heaven? As close as anyplace could be, and still be here on earth.

The fantasy manuscripts haven't been touched. That circumstance is starting to give me itchy fingers -- and an itchy brain. Must be one of the symptoms of writing addiction, and I've been away too long.

Not Quite the Breakfast Club

2010-07-25T12:52:00.000-05:00

Both mornings this weekend, before the heat and humidity became too much to handle, and before most folks even thought about getting out of bed, Dad came over and helped me with some much-needed house maintenance and repairs. The work is by no means finished, but we Southerners learn to pace ourselves in the summer, a season which can start before the calendar says it does, and end long after the calendar says it should.

And we don't always eat first then go to work. The heat can make a person ill, and then all that breakfast needs somewhere to go when the stomach kicks it out. Eating later can actually be a good thing.

After work was done, and this being my house, I was the designated breakfast cook. Although Mom made sure my brother and I learned to cook and clean and take care of ourselves when we were still in elementary school, I've not had much use for making breakfast in all the years I've lived on my own. Yeah, I still rustle up some oatmeal on occasion, or toast, but generally I'm an on-the-go breakfaster: peel back the foil on a store-bought cup of yogurt and eat it with a plastic spoon while driving to work, or pop open a can of breakfast shake and use it to swig down some extra vitamins before heading out the door, and fixing a fresh cup of coffee after I get to work.

This weekend, though, I had to relearn old skills: scrambling eggs (too much milk made them watery Saturday morning), or eyeballing the water-to-oats ratio for oatmeal (measuring cups? what measuring cups?). The toast turned out okay. Boiled eggs Sunday morning -- not okay. We ate them anyway, mixed up as egg salad and slathered between pieces of toast.

Coffee, now, that's my specialty. It was perfect every time.

If I was really going to go for traditional family fare, there would have been biscuits and white gravy, sausage or bacon or both, fried eggs, grits, and probably buttermilk. But I don't keep that stuff on hand; Dad was fortunate to get those watery scrambled eggs and that chewy-thick oatmeal. He didn't seem to mind, though, because he ate two helpings and he sat long at the table, drinking coffee, talking. Saturday, he picked out a DVD, took his coffee into the living room, and watched 3:10 to Yuma. This morning, he ate those wonky egg sandwiches and talked about the movie, how it had lingered with him for the rest of the day and what it made him think.

So my cooking skills, or lack thereof, weren't important. Nor am I going to spell out what was important. The "moral" of this story is up to you, the reader, to infer.

Why?

Just as writers are often advised to begin their stories en medias res (in the middle of the story's events) in order to grab the readers' attention, so too they should be advised -- as poets are -- to know when to stop. Often, the best way to engage an audience in your story is not to tell them what to think or feel, but to lead them in a certain direction then step out of the way, and leave the rest up to them.

I Write Like (fill in the blank)

2010-07-17T05:50:00.001-05:00

Seen the news about I Write Like, a new website for literary geeks -- uh -- aficionados? You can plug in samples of your writing, the site will analyze the material, and a few seconds later will give you the name of a famous author whose style resembles yours.

Just for fun, I copied-and-pasted the first chapter of my first fantasy manuscript into the analyzer, and zappo! I write like Mario Puzo.

Huh? Wait a minute. Didn't he write a classic or something?

Not sure my sword-slinging captain of ragged but courageous medieval-type soldiers compares well with The Godfather, but, hey, this is all just in good fun.

And, apparently, I also write like Stephen King. At least that's the read on the latest episode of Thieves' Honor after it was dropped into the box.

Since the algorithm on the website checks and compares word choices from only about 50 authors, one can't really know if one's style is truly like that of another writer or not -- the site can only compute by the data and programming it is given.

Still, just out of curiosity, I tossed in a few other random writing samples, and here are the results:

"At the End of Time, When the World Was New" (published short story) -- like Vladimir Nabokov

"Jubal's Gift" (unfinished short story-turned-novella) -- like James Joyce

SF/F mashup short story (title withheld, written under another name) -- like David Foster Wallace

"Rowena" (award-winning story written under another name and title) -- like H.P. Lovecraft

Adam (unfinished novel based on family history) -- like Stephen King

Costano (unfinished "historical fantasy" novel) -- like James Joyce

(SK & JJ again -- I think I'm detecting a pattern!)

Eban's Crossing (unfinished YA fantasy novel) -- like David Foster Wallace

A Fist of Thorns (yet another unfinished fantasy novel) -- like James Joyce

"Wolf's Daughter" (short story written under another name and title) -- David Foster Wallace

(JJ & DFW -- really detecting a pattern!)

supernatural novel (written under another name) -- like James Joyce

Of the twelve samples I plugged into the site,
four were compared to James Joyce (an author I have struggled to read but just can't),
three were compared to David Foster Wallace (never read his work),
two were compared to Stephen King (watched movies based on his work, read a story or two),
one was compared to H.P. Lovecraft (again, I've only read a story or two, though friends are fans),
one to Vladimir Nabokov (only read an excerpt of Lolita, just didn't hold my attention),
and one to Mario Puzo (seen the movies, read excerpts of the books).

In this amateur analysis, it seems as if my writing most resembles that of authors I've never read. Good thing, bad thing? Hm.

An Old List and a Blatant Plea

2010-07-12T23:00:00.004-05:00

Taped to the wire stand that supports my no-frills HP printer is an old, slightly-faded fluorescent yellow index card labeled "Wildly Impossible Dreams":

1) Finish not only DRAGON'S ROOK but also DRAGON'S BANE and the rest of the long, massive story.

2) Publish these books; that they will connect so strongly with readers that they positively affect lives for generations.

3) Be a cross-genre writer -- and be successful at it.

4) Make my living as a writer.

5) Involve my brother & other family members in my writing.

Well, Dragon's Rook is indeed finished but in need of one more gentle edit before it goes anywhere. Dragon's Bane is still being written. Brother and family are most certainly involved. I do write in more than one genre, but success is still elusive.

Notice how those "Wildly Impossible Dreams" aren't so impossible? How they all involve writing? Some might say my life is narrow. I just call it focused.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Issue #56 of Ray Gun Revival is live! Check out all the stories (I haven't had a chance to wade into it yet, but am looking forward to some good reads), and admire the excellent artwork.

Here's a request I don't make, except of the handful of pre-readers who help me prepare stories for submission: If there are any readers who are following Thieves' Honor, my space pirates serial being published in RGR, any feedback you care to give? I'll take the good, the bad, and the ugly, as long as it's legit. Any suggestions, questions, directions you'd like the story to go?

To tell the truth, I just want to know if the story's being read.

Thanks!

Kids and Living Lessons

2010-07-09T11:10:00.002-05:00

So, yesterday, returning from a work-related errand, I walk in the door of the Club and am met with an ongoing girl-drama saga: a feud between two sets of sisters who live on the same street, attend the same school, and bring their mess to the same Club.

This time, there are threats -- "I'm gonna bring my momma here, and she's gonna beat you into the ground" -- and the usual name-calling, foul-language, biting, shoving, scratching. And then, when confronted with overwhelming evidence and witnesses, one of the main perpetrators gives me a wide-eyed look and swears (there are actual tears in her eyes) that she's never done anything to anyone.

Awww. Feel the sincerity.

Well, I've had as much sincerity as I can stand, so there's some discipline meted out, as well as some mercy, and I hope -- but don't really expect -- that little bit of mercy to be appreciated.

Not even an hour later, one of the four girls is back: after hearing the consequences of future misdeeds, and knowing she will have used up all her chances, all the available mercy, she has gone right out and done it all again. This time, she receives the full penalty.

Reminds me of the man in the parable told by Jesus: a man whose unpayable debt to the king is forgiven immediately goes out and shows no mercy to another man who owes a paltry amount. There is no gratitude for the grace that has been extended.

How many times have I forgotten how much I owe? How much thanks is due to Him and to others?

Then, this morning, there's a wail of despair and I come out of my office to see a boy standing at the front desk and gripping the edges of the counter, his head thrown back, his eyes closed in a face contorted with crying. Upon examination, he has no visible wounds, nothing's bleeding or broken. When he can speak, he hiccups and wails the words, "I feeelll! And Sebastian fell on top of meeeee!"

I press a fist to my mouth and endeavor to look as concerned as possible.

It doesn't help that his sister is openly smiling.

Later, as he's led back to the gym, I call after him, "Tommy, I feel your pain."

His sister turns to me, laughing, and says, "Maybe Sebastian was really heavy today."

And maybe Tommy was more embarrassed than hurt.

So, you may ask, what's the life lesson here, Keanan?

Maybe it's not as bad as it feels.

Expanding in the Void

2010-07-06T21:30:00.004-05:00

Very little writing has been done at my address. There's the occasional e-mail, sure, but no fiction. Not since the submission of Thieves' Honor, Episode 12 to the Overlords at Ray Gun Revival.

No, I haven't lost my odd obsession with words (for instance, I hate obstreperous, because it's such a clinical-looking term for rowdy behavior), nor have I run out of ideas for stories. All the fantasy and science fiction projects are still in the works.

The house has been undergoing a spring cleaning -- summer cleaning? There's no cleaning like summer cleaning, like no cleaning I know.

(gulp) Did I just paraphrase a show tune?

Medic!

Okay. All better now.

Despite tossing out bag after bag of old manuscripts and worn-out story notes, I still have two huge plastic tubs of notebooks, research, and ideas. It's a mother lode of my own making, but some of the material is so old that I'd forgotten it, so it's almost like receiving treasure from a total stranger.

Books, DVDs, crazy bits of nostalgia, clothes, the odd shelf or old coffee mug, they're all hittin' the road. The place looks bare, but I don't miss a thing. Stuff is a chain, and the mind clears as the space clears. There are still shelves stocked with hundreds of books and dozens of movies; if I didn't like them so much, need them for research, I'd send them down the road, too, just to create more space.

My imagination expands to fill the void, and I can hardly wait to get back to the business of creating.

------------------------- And now a note for the insane: -------------------------

Over at M. Keaton's blog, Speaking of the Mad, is a tongue-in-cheek, laugh-out-loud post about his theory of Quantum Irrationality. Please, do go read it. Your chakras will thank you.

Animal Control, or How to Remove A Squirrel Trapped in Your Fireplace

2010-06-27T13:49:00.003-05:00

My brother and sister-in-law recently welcomed their third child into the family. In the same week, they acquired an uninvited guest. Below are the steps Bubba employed to remove said guest.

How to remove a squirrel trapped in your fireplace in 12 easy steps:

Step 1: Call pest removal service and get a quote.
Step 2: Have your spouse resuscitate you after you hear price quote.
Step 3: Repeat steps 1 and 2 until every pest removal service in the phone book has been contacted or until you understand that the lowest price quote is still going to be over $100.
Step 4: Contemplate purchasing commercially available trap.
Step 5: Decide $25 is still too much to pay and retrieve cage of your late hamster.
Step 6: Place cracked corn inside of cage, attach wire to door for remote closure, place cage (quickly) into fireplace.
Step 7: After about 12 hours of waiting, realize that the squirrel is NOT falling for it.
Step 8: Add seeds to cage and cover the cage with old tee-shirts to make it dark and cozy.
Step 9: Accept the fact that the squirrel will NEVER enter your trap.
Step 10: Lose patience with squirrel, get out flashlight, lantern, digital camera, and canned air.
Step 11: Harass squirrel mercilessly. This part is fun.
Step 12: Fear is good motivator. The squirrel exits back up the chimney the way he came in.

7 Things I learned while trying to evict a squirrel:

1. A squirrel can growl.
2. Squirrels do not like flash photography.
3. Squirrels will stare you down.
4. Squirrels jump when sprayed with canned air.
5. Angry/scared squirrels in confined spaces can be quite entertaining.
6. Trapped squirrels are not fond of yelling, running children.
7. With enough motivation a squirrel can clear obstacles that were previously insurmountable.

"I made the mistake of leaving the shirt in the fireplace," said Bubba, "because he (the squirrel) just wallered it around until he made a cozy nest and went to sleep. He stopped trying to escape."

Here's a Sunday sermon: Even if your captivity is comfortable, you're still not free.

In addition to the above observation about no longer trying to escape, my wise younger brother said this several months ago: "When you get to the point that this is unacceptable, you take steps to change it. But you don't change until your dissatisfaction with where you are outweighs the risk of stepping out on faith." (Context can be read here.)

Amen, brother. Amen.

Imaginary Jesus - Day 3

2010-06-23T22:08:00.000-05:00

This is the briefest entry yet for a CSFF Blog Tour entry by me, but here goes!

I really enjoyed Imaginary Jesus by Matt Mikalatos. Andrea expresses some of the more critical thoughts I had while reading the book -- and by critical, I don't necessarily mean negative.

Normally, I would dive off into a critique of the book, but it's late on the last day of the tour, and life has intervened to suck away all the hours, along with not a few brain cells. (More details about some of those life events in a later post.)

Therefore, below is the list of other stops on the tour, hopefully written by folks with all brain matter intact:
Brandon Barr
Grace Bridges
Beckie Burnham
Valerie Comer
R. L. Copple
Amy Cruson
CSFF Blog Tour
Stacey Dale
D. G. D. Davidson
Jeff Draper
April Erwin
Andrea Graham
Tori Greene
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Jason Joyner
Julie
Carol Keen
Krystine Kercher
Dawn King
Leighton
Rebecca LuElla Miller
John W. Otte
Donita K. Paul
Crista Richey
Chawna Schroeder
Rachel Starr Thomson
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Phyllis Wheeler
KM Wilsher

Imaginary Jesus - Day 2

2010-06-22T01:50:00.001-05:00

Welcome to Day 2 of the June CSFF Blog Tour, featuring the humorous and challenging Imaginary Jesus by Matt Mikalatos. [Click here to read Day 1.] Yesterday, for reasons unknown, I said the story was set in Seattle. Don't know where that came from. Blame it on a low blood-caffeine level. The error has been corrected: story is actually set in Portland, Oregon, a city I knew well in the 1970s and 80s, when I visited my great-grandmother who lived in a neat old house on or near Killingsworth.

But enough about my family history. Back to the book.

In the middle of Matt the protagonist's search for the real Jesus, he once again crosses paths with the eponymous Imaginary Jesus of the book's title.

Imaginary Jesus -- hereafter known as "IJ" -- has invited a couple of other "imaginaries" to help provide Matt a possible answer to a recent tragedy in his life: one imaginary will portray Meticulous Providence Jesus, IJ will be Free Will Jesus, and the third will play the part of Can't-See-the-Future-Because-It's-Unknowable Jesus. They and Matt are all going to get on inner tubes and sled down a snow-covered slope. Whichever imaginary reaches the bottom with Matt will be declared the answer to his questions about God's providence.

I shall not reveal the results of this very serious debate. Ahem. Race. It's laugh-out-loud funny, and I appreciated the Calvin and Hobbes reference. (One of the best comic strips ever.) The scene is vivid, and I can see it being played out on a movie screen, which is pretty much how my imagination works most of the time. However, inside the humor lies a somber, legitimate, and perennial question: Why, when He is all-powerful, does God let tragedy happen?

I wondered why none of their answers satisfied me.

"Those are the choices you've come up with," Pete answered. "Some of them are more theologically sound than others, but the only person who can answer this definitively is God himself. Why are you wasting your time like this? Why don't you ask the real Jesus?"

But Matt turns once more to IJ:

"I don't know how to stop calling you up," I said. "I don't want to stop calling you."

"The problem is that you honestly like me. You can compare me to the Jesus in the Bible and see that I'm not real. You can compare me to your own experience of the real Jesus and see that I'm a fake. Your own friends point out my inconsistencies. Logic pokes holes in my reality. But time after time, you keep returning to me because deep down you prefer me to the real thing."

I nodded. It actually made sense. The real Jesus was frightening sometimes, and he said things I didn't like. He required sacrifice. He scared me by doing things I didn't believe he could. He was a better person than me. I preferred my fake Jesus.

Note: Isn't that why there are so many versions of Christianity? So many various sects, cults, and religions? Why it's "tolerant" and ecumenical to say that all roads lead to God? It's a difficult thing to accept that there is only one mediator between God and man -- Jesus Christ -- because doing so requires humility. After all, only the very unsophisticated and illiterate still believe there's a sovereign God, right? It's so much more comfortable and convenient to come up with a "God" that we can lower to our own level, that we can mold and control.

Upon reading through the end of the chapter, I fell asleep -- not, thankfully, with the book splayed across my face, as often happens -- and experienced a bizarre and very real dream: several imaginaries not even listed in the novel (Frontiersman Jesus, for instance, complete with fringed buckskins and coonskin cap) gathered in the bailey of a medieval English castle to compete in a "Jesus-Off" to see who among them was the best.

The first test of skill was an axe-throwing contest, but each time a "Jesus" stepped up to the line, his time was up. This went on until the contestants were almost all eliminated from the first round without ever having actually thrown an axe. As a spectator, I was becoming really annoyed with the judges and their impatience.

And then my fuzzy consciousness realized that the time buzzer was really my alarm clock, beeping just as each imaginary's foot touched the line.

If a story can so absorb me that it invades my dreams, well, now, I call that a good book!

------------------------------

Totally off-topic: as I was about to post this entry, at 1:42 a.m., my brother called to inform me that I have a new niece. He sounded wiped, but three-year-old Niece #2 was going like crazy in the background, talking and laughing. Heaven help Bubba!

Imaginary Jesus - Day 1

2010-06-21T00:49:00.002-05:00

Jesus and I sometimes grab lunch at the Red and Black Cafe....

So begins Imaginary Jesus by Matt Mikalatos, "a not-quite-true story" and this month's entry in the CSFF Blog Tour.

Set in Portland -- aside from a time-warping jaunt to ancient Judea -- and mixing the absurd with the sacred, this well-written and fast-moving novel explores the many and various versions of not-quite-Biblical Jesus that Matt can concoct:

1) the original Imaginary Jesus, the one who joins Matt for those lunches at the cafe and whom Matt treats a bit like a vending machine -- insert prayer request, get desired response -- by expecting "Jesus" to fix a parking ticket for him, and whose flight after a confrontation with a large fisherman named Pete is the catalyst for Matt's quest to find the real Jesus;

2) the Society for Imaginary Jesuses, which includes many "imaginaries", including Bargain Jesus, Liberal Social Services Jesus (has no mouth but likes to do good deeds), Conservative Truth-Telling Jesus (no arms but definitely has a mouth), Christian Nation Jesus, Televangelist Jesus (faith-healing, speaking in tongues, requests for cash offerings), and Hippie/Peacenik Jesus (flowers in his hair);

3) Magic 8 Ball Jesus, who, along with the first Imaginary Jesus, reminds me of The Pressure's Off by Larry Crabb, in which the author discusses how believers tend to treat God like a machine -- again, prayer in, desired answer out -- rather than simply having a true relationship with Him. (There's a lot more to that book, and I highly recommend it.)

Matt Mikalatos, by the way, is both author and main character, and it works. The writing is good, alternately breezy and somber, absurd and profound, taking the reader on a wild quest for Y'shua, the real Jesus. And when Matt does encounter Him, well, I'll let you read that for yourself.

Over the next couple of days, I'll discuss different aspects of the book, and describe an odd dream I had -- falling asleep in the middle of reading a wacked-out book can have crazy consequences!

Meantime, check out what others are saying about Imaginary Jesus:
Brandon Barr
Keanan Brand
Grace Bridges
Beckie Burnham
Valerie Comer
R. L. Copple
Amy Cruson
CSFF Blog Tour
Stacey Dale
D. G. D. Davidson
Jeff Draper
April Erwin
Andrea Graham
Tori Greene
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Jason Joyner
Julie
Carol Keen
Krystine Kercher
Dawn King
Leighton
Rebecca LuElla Miller
John W. Otte
Donita K. Paul
Crista Richey
Chawna Schroeder
Rachel Starr Thomson
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Phyllis Wheeler
KM Wilsher

Risk = Life

2010-06-13T11:57:00.001-05:00

For the past year, I've been thinking about risk and what that means:

1) June 26, 2009 -- a discussion of two movies in which men risk everything to save their families; both based on actual events
2) June 30, 2009 -- a contemplation on whether or not risk is the responsible thing
3) July 15, 2009 -- scratch the itch of wanderlust? or stay and put down roots?
4) August 16, 2009 -- taking the small risk of a new form of writing; outlining possible life changes
5) September 7, 2009 -- deciding to serve fear or God

I'm still contemplating risk, specifically moving away from my family and friends to a new state. This is not a new state, however (pardon the pun!): my childhood can be mapped in treks across the country. I used to revel in the excitement of new places. But I have become settled, and I've grown up, and there is no safety net. Soon, I will know once more Bilbo's advice to Frodo in JRR Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings:

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door," he used to say. "You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to."

Speaking of being swept off, Abby Sunderland, the recently rescued 16-year-old sailor attempting to sail solo around the world, said this in a blog post: (emphasis mine)

There are plenty of things people can think of to blame for my situation; my age, the time of year and many more. The truth is, I was in a storm and you don't sail through the Indian Ocean without getting in at least one storm. It wasn't the time of year it was just a Southern Ocean storm. Storms are part of the deal when you set out to sail around the world.

As for age, since when does age create gigantic waves and storms?

How many of us complain and wring our hands and cast blame for the unexpected, unpleasant, or tragic things that happen to us in our daily lives? To paraphrase Abby, tragedy is part of the deal when you set out to live this life.

As for the criticism her family received for allowing her to circumnavigate the globe alone and so young,

"Sailing and life in general is dangerous," said her father, Laurence. "Teenagers drive cars. Does that mean teenagers shouldn't drive a car? I think people who hold that opinion have lost their zeal for life. They're living in a cotton-wool tunnel to make everything safe." (read more of the SFGate article)

Ouch.

Abby Sunderland challenges me. She faced a vast and unforgiving ocean alone. Prepared, but alone. No guarantee of success or survival.

Compared to that, what's a move across the country?

And why all this foot-dragging? I want to be sure that I am taking the risk for the right reasons and that I'm prepared (mentally and in other ways) should I fail. And, to be honest, I'm still trying to convince myself to take that first step.

Back before the internet was such an integral part of our lives, before MapQuest and Google and GPS helped us navigate our way, we relied on actual maps to guide us. I also listened to my parents fight over who was reading the map correctly -- Mom, hands down -- and learned to plot my own routes by watching how they did it, and by listening to their reasons for taking one road over another.

So, in honor of "the good ol' days" of Rand-McNally road atlases, and as a reminder to myself that I have been more adventurous than I am now, here's a poem from several years ago:

Vagabond

My map is crossed
with thin blue highways
and squiggled yellow highlighter
and fat red interstates.

Do I take the easy ways,
the broad, straight roads
with bright green signs
and regular mile markers
that tick off the time
and make me feel safe?

How can I get lost
with so many things to guide me?

But what if I don’t want to be safe?
What if something tugs me
toward the dust
and the rolling curves
and the green isolation
of the backroads,
toward the towns travelers never see
except when they take the wrong exits

and are lost?

KB, June 2003

Time Travel

2010-06-06T00:07:00.013-05:00

This weekend, I visited the Ozark Medieval Fortress in Lead Hill, Arkansas -- an awesome site, great folks, interesting stuff to learn and explore. Since the structure and environs will resemble a 13th-century castle that could reside quite well in the French countryside, there were times I seemed to have stepped onto the set of Timeline (the not great, not bad movie made from Michael Crichton's entertaining novel of the same name, in which archeologists and other scientists travel back in time to a French fortress under attack by the English).

James was the tour guide for my group Saturday afternoon; he is knowledgeable, funny, and makes history seem far from dusty. Here he's demonstrating how a rope with 13 knots is used by craftsmen to measure lengths (it's also handy for right angles, roof pitches, and more):

The trebuchet and the "Greek crane" (human hamster wheel) are fully operational, and the crane is used by the craftsmen building the castle.

trebuchet from the back

front of trebuchet, through an arrow port in the lower level of a tower

Greek (and Roman) crane

Despite sunburn, heat, my bottle running dry 'cause I kept swigging, and a touch of heat exhaustion after a few hours of exploration, I can't wait to go back -- maybe in the fall when the temperature's closer to 70 than 100, and the humidity feels more like a damp windbreaker than a thick wet coat. I may just bring a van-load of kids from the Boys & Girls Club, too.

Highly recommended for anyone interested in history or various crafts, anything from basket weaving to blacksmithing, quarrying to stone dressing, pottery to rope-making, and all manner of other skills necessary to the construction and operation of a medieval fortress.

------------------------------

Note: The bellows in use by a blacksmith on the site is the same as the one I described in Dragon's Rook, first manuscript in a fantasy cycle I am still writing. It was encouraging to see that I described it correctly, and even cooler to see it in action. Here's a shot of the bellows just after the smith released the rope (on the right), which was still swinging when I snapped the photo:

all photos c. Keanan Brand

Unsaid Things

2010-06-05T20:19:00.006-05:00

Recently, my dad was over at my house, and he started reading a document that was open on my computer desktop: an early draft of Episode 12 of Thieves' Honor (which, by the way, is undergoing yet another draft after pre-readers weighed in with their critiques).

As long-time readers of this blog may know, my family, while supportive of my writing since I was a kid, hasn't always been enthusiastic about the stories I tell. Until now. I don't know what it is about this particular endeavor, but my parents are actually reading and enjoying it.

So, Dad paused on his way out the door and read this simple, rough scene:

A shoulder gouging him in the belly was about as pleasant as a fist to the gut; his head flopping around as if his neck was a noodle—sickening. Kristoff was dizzy inside of four steps, and he almost vomited, but clamped his mouth shut and cursed his body for disobedience. Wounded and exhausted, it still had no right to mutiny.

"Where—do—we—go?" panted Sahir.

"West, I think," replied Corrigan.

"No. Where?"

"Do I look like a soothsayer?"

"You look like captain hit you when you set him down."

"Nah. He's wounded."

"You have broken hand."

"Well, I'm taller."

Sahir wheezed a laugh. "He is—crazier."

Yeah, yeah. Kristoff's chin bumped Corrigan's back. Keep talkin'.

Dad chuckled and said, "I really like your sense of humor."

Seven words, yet they carry almost four decades of unsaid things.

For writers, they're also a reminder of how a simple sentence can carry the weight and reveal the depth of an entire story.

"Lost" and Trust in Storytelling

2010-05-24T23:02:00.004-05:00

I can hear the chorus: "All right, enough already!"

But here's yet another commentary on the series finale of that crazy, mind-bending television series, "Lost".

If you've never followed the series, nothing I can outline here can clarify the storyline in a succinct fashion. If you're already a fan, there's no need to rehash the series.

Shortly after "Lost" first hit the airwaves, I was at a writers conference and overheard a clutch of writers debating the series. They were gathered in an alcove, but the conversation was loud enough that most of us standing in the noisy hotel lobby could follow the debate with ease. One woman repeated, "They're gonna write themselves into a corner! I tell you, there's no way they can untangle it!"

I laughed to myself, and figured I was hearing the voice of someone who had never read fantasy or science fiction, or she just couldn't let a story unfold without knowing all the answers up front.

Turns out, I was the naive one and she the sage.

For the first couple of seasons, I was an avid viewer then lost interest for the next two seasons, only catching an episode here or there, but returning at the end of Season 4 and hanging around until the end. I was re-hooked, you might say, but was waiting for the finale before deciding whether or not to add the series to my DVD library. After all, an excellent last chapter can mend a lot of ills in the preceding story.

The end matters. But the writers and producers didn't bring it home. They didn't fulfill the promises made by all the plot threads and secrets, and therefore they "lost" my trust as storytellers.

And then there were the last scenes, where they presented a mishmash of religious symbols -- for intance, that ridiculous stained-glass window that someone, I'm sure, will applaud as being ecumenical. That amalgam of religions was weak, even offensive. The creative team should have stuck with a more science-related ending.

Until the final season, the story seemed pointed toward the genre of "hard science fiction" with a leavening addition of a little fantasy, but the final season tipped completely over into fantasy. Remember how a clanking chain sound or growling would signal the imminent arrival of the black smoke? There was a definite machine-like sound. Then a couple of characters confronted the smoke, and it reacted with a seeming intelligence of its own. Were we misled from the beginning, or was the smoke's "intelligence" an accident of storytelling that was later used in the mythology presented in the final season?

Whatever the answer, I can't help but think that the creative team should have steered clear of the soft, faux spirituality, and done the difficult work of writing an ending that was hard science fiction and truer to most of the extant material. By closing the story as they did, they essentially negated all the story that came before.

They made all the audience's investment in the story pointless. In essence, they didn't keep their promise(s). They didn't play fair.

It's probably needless to say, but I will not be adding "Lost" to my ever-growing DVD library.

Monday on a Friday

2010-05-22T02:12:00.003-05:00

Friday at the Club was -- not dull.

Almost immediately after children and teenagers started arriving after school, I dealt with several disciplinary problems, one right after the other, and narrowly averted a momma fight in my office. For the uninitiated, a "momma fight" occurs when two mothers let their mouths precede their minds, and say things to one another's children -- or to each other -- that usually have no business being said.

Today, the unfortunate remark in question: "Is that the other little worm who hit my daughter?"

Ay-yi-yi.

And the mother of the "little worm" is convinced the staff treat her children differently than everyone else, and that's why they're so angry all the time.

Yeah. That's it.

She doesn't seem to consider the alternative: they're treated differently because they're so angry all the time, and that anger leads to foolish actions that lead to consequences. Besides anger, there's a deep vein of disrespect toward authority. There was a time, many years ago, when I would have tried to play therapist and resolve the problems. Well, I have a much thicker skin now, and a crustier attitude, and I think my "just not interested in your crap" demeanor went a long way toward quelling their disturbances today. They can get therapy on their own dime.

Which makes me realize I'm more like a couple of my fictional characters than I previously realized.

We writers don't often like to admit it, but every character -- even the nastiest ones, the craziest ones -- are pieces of ourselves. In my case, there are a couple tough-minded individuals I wish I could be more like than I am in real life. But, as I continue to write them, maybe some of those fictions are becoming truths.

That's not so bad. Not bad at all.

By Darkness Hid - Day 3

2010-05-18T22:00:00.017-05:00

This marks the final day of the CSFF Blog Tour for By Darkness Hid, first book in the Blood of Kings series by Jill Williamson.

Usually, funky names intrigue me. There are a few of them in my own writing. They can make characters distinct from one another, add interest, give clues to cultural or language differences, and hint at the core personality of characters. The protagonist's name in By Darkness Hid is a prime example: "Achan", the various interpretations of which involve "trouble" -- and the main character does indeed encounter trouble. However, some of the character and place names in the novel felt awkward, as there was almost too much effort to make the world feel real.

But, as long-time readers of this blog know, I do love maps, and there's a nifty one at the front of the book.

Because he's the hero, I knew I was supposed to be interested in what happens to Achan, but -- to be honest -- I really didn't care much at the beginning. For one thing, his patient submission to Poril's beatings. I didn't buy it. I've been whupped with everything from Momma's hand to Daddy's belt to a willow switch I had to cut myself, and there wasn't any quiet submission about any of it. I anticipated the pain -- that's almost worse than the actual pain -- and had a way of twisting out of the path of whatever was aimed at my backside. Unfortunately, that skill only made my parents angrier, so maybe that wasn't such a good plan.

The early scene where Sir Gavin gives Achan his first lesson in sword fighting is well done, the characters speak with confidence, and the writing seems to even out a bit. It's the first place in the book that feels real, and it's where I began to be interested.

Although Williamson pointed out in a comment on my Day 1 post that Marcher Lord Press doesn't publish young adult fiction, it fits nicely into that category. In earlier blog posts, I listed some of my favorite childhood authors, and described the vagaries of imagination. There are some names missing from that list of authors -- Lloyd Alexander, for example. I was first introduced to his work in the Prydain Chronicles, and the stories so captured my attention that I didn't notice their spare style until I re-visited them as an adult. The Chronicles are classic children's literature that many a grown-up still reads with delight.

As a young reader, I forgave authors much, especially if I liked the stories they were telling. However, as I grew up and pursued my own writing, I started looking critically at all work -- mine and theirs -- and sometimes it's difficult to turn off that editor. I realize an author has done his or her job when I make it all the way through a book without thinking about its construction, or how a paragraph could have been structured differently, or keeping a tally of all the unnecessary sentences.

Or unintentionally comical ones, such as the second sentence of By Darkness Hid:

The morning cold sent shivers through his threadbare orange tunic.

His tunic shivered?

Yeah, we all know what the author meant, but that's not what she wrote.

As I said before, it's hard sometimes for the editor to turn off and allow the reader to just enjoy.

By not being 100% enthusiastic, I've probably committed sacrilege this go-'round. However, I also know that my own writing doesn't appeal to a broad spectrum, and I've sat through some unexpected and harsh criticisms of what I considered my best work. It happens. But we should all be free to like what we like, to write what we write, to be allowed to offer an opposing opinion.

That doesn't mean I didn't like the book as a whole. By Darkness Hid is an award-winning novel, and has opened doors for Williamson to teach creative writing to kids, and that's awesome. Any chance to get kids interested in literature, literacy, and creativity is an opportunity not to be missed.